Nothing has gone wrong here?" "Nothing whatever," replied Ireton. She was clad in fresh linen, but still wore the riding-habit she had appropriated, having sponged out the spots of blood late last night and left it to dry in the kitchens. It could only mean one thing—that her foster daughter was both a whore and a murderer! When Sheila confronted her about it, it was five in the morning. ‘You would read my mind?’ Gerald was pretty certain he already had, but he did not say so.
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