It is at the lodge that we stay. Gerald glanced down and saw her dash at a spread of blood on his own hand, only now realising that her dagger had found its mark. The general did what he might to hush it up, and paid handsomely to manage it, I daresay. You have a daughter, no? Madame Ibstock, I think. It was a gray day in the spring of 1910. He has been bottling it up all the way from West Kensington.
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