Very dark, like yours, ma’am. “When you married me——” Her little hand flashed out across the table. So you are Prudence Remenham. ‘Well she does,’ insisted Miss Froxfield impenitently, and turned to Gerald. The evening breeze came; the bamboo shades on the veranda clicked and rasped; the loose edges of the manuscript curled. She could still smell the now familiar scent of him on the girl's body in the makeshift grave.
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