. G. It was the beginning of June. She was not squeamish—although the sight of the sergeant’s ominous preparations had severely tried her fortitude—but Kimble’s white face plagued her conscience. That day Gerald had brought her to this excessively careful house, where she had felt very much alone and very unlike herself. ‘What’s more,’ went on Martha, ‘I knew something Mr Charvill didn’t, or he wouldn’t so readily have left it behind him. And it’s like the petals falling from a flower. ’ ‘No, I wouldn’t have believed you.
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