“It was poison—why not?” she answered. Her fanciful imagination no longer drew pictures of the aunt in the doorway of a wooden house, her arms extended in welcome. But how close? She glanced about at the shrouded furnishings for possible cover. “Never mind. His eyes squeezed shut in ecstasy; he let out a sigh. Jack Sheppard's Quarrel with Jonathan Wild. I don’t feel it.
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