‘Do not imagine that I will leave poor Jacques. I wouldn't trust a Malay, not if he were reared in the Vatican. “I never planned it—And now I have begun—” She felt acutely that he was entitled to explanations, and as acutely that explanations were impossible that night. She must kill this man, or kill herself. A siphon and a whisky bottle stood before him. Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved.
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