My dress, my person will be minutely described. “It was poison—why not?” she answered. She never touched the manuscript with pencil, but jotted down her notes on slips of paper and left them where he might easily find them. The little grating in the door, the sense of constant inspection, worried her. ‘Pray you, mademoiselle, can you not—’ ‘No use trying to enlist Lucilla’s aid,’ snapped Roding. His salary was a few paltry hundreds a year.
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