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. ‘Jacques! This—this bête he attacks me, and you stand there and you do nothing. His wife's portrait had been removed from the walls, and the place it had occupied was only to be known by the cord by which it had been suspended.
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