She quickly strangled him with the piano wire as he looked at her, his lips open as if to scream, but his larynx had been intentionally sliced. “I cannot pretend that I am glad to see you, Lady Ferringhall,” he said quietly. Ah! how I wish, poor dear Sir Cecil were alive! he'd keep him in order. “Do you know, I have been wondering what had become of you,” she said. He was caressing an idea. She never grew angry for anything her husband did: such anger as came to her was directed against the lazy, incompetent servant who was always snooping about in the inner temple—Spurlock's study.
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