The thought of their faces, and particularly of her aunt’s, as it would meet the fact— disconcerted, unfriendly, condemning, pained—occurred to her again and again. She could feel Martin’s eyes boring into her as she entered the room, her own personal Farhat. ‘Dead then, is he?’ ‘If I could say that he is dead, it would give me very much satisfaction. I could be presented as Meysey Hill.
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