For the face under her gaze she could find but one expression—fine. It was as much accident as anything, but she had killed him. “Please forgive me coming up, Miss Pellissier, but you have not been down to dinner for three nights, and—Brendon and I—we were afraid that you might be unwell. The imbecile. I'll knock off at tea. It was an awful moment—so awful, that every other feeling except deep interest in the scene seemed suspended. "Sir Rowland is murdered!" cried Jack, as soon as he could find a tongue.
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