“It was poison—why not?” she answered. On taxing his recollection, the whole circumstance rushed to mind with painful distinctness. Her hair got loose, her hat came over one eye, and she had no arm free to replace it. “And now let us leave the men alone and talk about ourselves. She was a small blonde, not handsome, but with a flair for fashion demonstrated by her elegant chemise gown in the very latest Canterbury muslin, with its low décolletage barely concealed under a fine lawn handkerchief set about her shoulders, and decorated with a mauve satin sash at the waist. No breakfast, he’s had no dinner, hardly a mouthful of soup— since yesterday at tea. I'm not quite such a greenhorn as Shotbolt, Jack, whatever you may think. Dunster shall fetch you a cab. Madame shrugged.
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