The assassination, as you call it, was, obviously, the vengeance of a kinsman of the injured lady, who no doubt was of good family, upon her seducer. Or he would find something—a wave in her hair, a little line in the contour of her brow or neck, that made an exquisite discovery. Prudence shook her head. “Won’t you sit down,” she said, “and tell me what you want to say?” Her voice was flat and faint. I studied violin with a teacher when I was younger,” she said. Words were given with their original meaning, without their ramifications. “The horse’s knees are broken, and I am not sure that the man is sober. What our dear mother would say back home I dread to think. Restlessness, then, was the trouble, simple restlessness: home bored her. I am glad or sorry according as it has brought you happiness.
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