‘Do that again,’ he said softly, ‘and I’ll make you sorry you ever came to England. As she did so, the ruffles to the jacket of her riding habit fell away, exposing livid blue bruises about her wrist, ugly in the light of day from the window at their back. She was consumed by misery and hate. The crowner's 'quest sat on her yesterday—and if she hadn't been proved out of her mind, she would have been buried at four lane-ends.
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