Then her fingers moved. These cogitations were interrupted by the entrance of the doctor. Lucy had tried for years to find a way of not getting blood all over herself when she made a kill. “Well,” he said slowly, “I had met you three times—before Drummond’s dinner. To perdition with them all. “You asked me in to tea,” he protested. She herself, and one other there, recognized the interposition of something akin to tragedy.
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