A wedding procession turned the corner. One or the other. She advanced, stabbing at him. The figure of the girl upon it in plain black dress, standing with her hands behind her, was an undeniable and astonishing likeness of herself. ‘Who kills who?’ ‘Rot in hell,’ he snarled, panting, and managed to push himself forward and leap off the dais, running for the safety of the far aisle by the wall. “Only four spoonsful left,” she declared briskly, “and your turn to buy the next pound, Sydney.
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