“You were never born,” he declared, “to follow the well worn roads. He was an imaginative young man. ‘But do you think I can blame you for this, Marthe?’ ‘I blame myself. Better check on Remenham House, I suppose. Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved.
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