Through all this flutter of novelty there came and went a solicitous, preoccupied, almost depressed figure. ‘But my poor Jacques is wounded and—’ ‘All taken care of,’ interrupted Hilary. In truth, Sheila never saw Lucy murder anyone at all, she only saw the blood. He grabbed her wrist and prised the weapon from her fingers, ignoring her other hand that clawed at his to try to retain the trophy. “Should I leave? Sounds like she is running out of food. The girl stood with her hands behind her back, sulky, resolute, and intelligent, a strand of her black hair over one eye and looking more than usually delicate-featured, and more than ever like an obdurate child.
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