A terrible spectacle was presented to the young man's gaze:—the floor deluged with blood—the mangled and lifeless body of Mrs. ‘But that is excessively unkind of you, Melusine. Diane Vorsack was a disaster waiting for a place to happen, with a heartily established dislike for the Beck clan. The girl stood with her hands behind her back, sulky, resolute, and intelligent, a strand of her black hair over one eye and looking more than usually delicate-featured, and more than ever like an obdurate child. You were with your mother, the two of you huddled like thieves, laughing at the silly women who tried to shield themselves from rain by cowering under empty baskets and shawls. “I don’t know whether I shall go on,” said Gwen, a novel note of languorous professionalism creeping into her voice. She ought to have been disposed to faint and scream at all these happenings; she ought to have maintained a front of outraged dignity to veil the sinking of her heart.
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