Knives were worse, especially when you were stabbed back and left traces of your own blood at the crime scene. “You are very kind to think of it,” she said, “but—don’t you think perhaps—that I had better not?” He smiled indulgently. She sat on the edge of her bed and looked about her, at her room, at the row of black-covered books and the pig’s skull. When she occupied, it, it was neatness itself; the little porch was overrun with creepers—the garden trim and exquisitely kept. "Do not steel your heart against him, dear Thames," interposed Winifred. O'Higgins did not confide in me.
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