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This one too she read. She had fled back to Florence quite intent on slitting the new bride’s throat. Trodger laid down their muskets and turned on them. She sensed that he was looking for her. The assassination, as you call it, was, obviously, the vengeance of a kinsman of the injured lady, who no doubt was of good family, upon her seducer. " "I think I remember reading something about your father in the papers," observed Wood. She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness. His face changed and she saw, with a stab at her heart, the dawning of irritation in his eyes. "We're all damaged—we've all got broken pates," cried a dozen voices. “I’ll turn you here. I could see his little animal brain churning away, inventing plans for me, formulating his revenge. " "My coat, please. The sense of publicity, of people coming and going about them, kept them both unemotional. “It is possible, mademoiselle,” he said, “that this affair is not yet ended.
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