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. Very slowly, very fearfully, she turned her head. I knew it. But to choose this of all moments. ‘If you are not going to visit Charvill today, I’ll escort you back to the convent in Golden Square. She has no proof—yet. Or, better still, put all my clothes in the trunk. "Leave the room," interposed Kneebone, angrily.
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