And the fact that it was dressed in riding gear had fooled her into thinking it was her own image. The Becks were the best foster family that she had ever had. She must kill this man, or kill herself. A note of belligerency had crept into his tone. You forget all the mass of training and tradition and instinct that go to make him a tolerable master. Prudence? Mr Remenham’s sister that was. “I can’t endure it,” she said. I’m not half smart enough for the West End.
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