Her girl Clarice was next, dying within a single day, blood leaking from her pretty brown eyes like an image of the Blessed Virgin. I didn’t think—I don’t know what I thought. Neither father, aunt, nor brothers made a sign, and then one afternoon in early February her aunt came up in a state between expostulation and dignified resentment, but obviously very anxious for Ann Veronica’s welfare. ’ The questions that had long haunted her came out at last. Old London Bridge. So appalling was the sight, that even the murderers—familiar as they were with scenes of slaughter,—looked aghast at it. It was a habit she had taken from Remenham House, but could not wear because of the colour which must draw attention.
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