Oh, and only look at those stains,’ cried Miss Froxfield, gesturing at the blood on the ruffles to the sleeves of Melusine’s riding-habit, and on the chemise she wore under it. The great ordeal—that which she had most dreaded—had proved to be no ordeal at all. It’s the poor dears who do, who know they will, know they can’t keep it up, who need to clutch at way-side flowers. ‘Certainly you are imbecile.
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