She walked down the station approach, past the neat, obtrusive offices of the coal merchant and the house agent, and so to the wicket-gate by the butcher’s shop that led to the field path to her home. She rode him gently. The job is easy. But she threw a verbal bombshell into the spinsters' camp. She quickly strangled him with the piano wire as he looked at her, his lips open as if to scream, but his larynx had been intentionally sliced. “It was not necessary,” Sir John answered stiffly. All was darkness, horror, confusion, ruin. “I wonder if there are any good women really.
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