She had carried a chair into the room veranda and had watched and listened until the night silences had lengthened and only occasionally she heard a voice or the rattle of rickshaw wheels in the courtyard. “This is mere nonsense, mere tongue-tied fear!” she said. On this side was a razor with which a son had murdered his father; the blade notched, the haft crusted with blood: on that, a bar of iron, bent, and partly broken, with which a husband had beaten out his wife's brains. By following her he had discovered her secret nook in the rocks. She held out both her hands. Miss Stanley, it was manifest, had given him Ann Veronica’s address. Tom swore he hadn't set eyes on him since the trial. Then Sheila noticed the stains.
Video ID: TW96aWxsYS81LjAgQXBwbGVXZWJLaXQvNTM3LjM2IChLSFRNTCwgbGlrZSBHZWNrbzsgY29tcGF0aWJsZTsgQ2xhdWRlQm90LzEuMDsgK2NsYXVkZWJvdEBhbnRocm9waWMuY29tKSAtIDE4LjIxNi4xMzQuNCAtIDI5LTA2LTIwMjQgMDg6NTg6MDMgLSAxMDc0NjgwNjgx
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