“You asked me in to tea,” he protested. One of these, a lady, evidently a confirmed invalid, and attired in deep mourning, reclined upon a sort of couch, or easy chair, set on wheels, with her head supported by cushions, and her feet resting upon a velvet footstool. Gerald glanced down and saw her dash at a spread of blood on his own hand, only now realising that her dagger had found its mark. Wood scarcely knew where he was.
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