‘In that case, he is probably already dead, and you have nothing to worry about. Do help me, Lady Ferringhall. Will you take your old place by Miss Ellicot. ” A spot of colour flared in Anna’s cheek as she glanced towards the speaker. Hanging on the wall was a temple censer, bronze, moulded in the shape of a lotus blossom with stem and leaves—deadly as a club. She walked back to the car. She forgot Anna’s sacrifices, forgot her own callousness, forgot the burden which she had fastened upon her sister’s shoulders.
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