" Sir Rowland looked at her for a moment, as if he meditated some terrible reply. “Who did you live with before the Becks? I hear things. He himself, middle-aged, steeped in traditions of the City and moneymaking, very ill-skilled in all the lighter graces of life, as he himself well knew, could yet come to her invested with something of the halo of romance by the almost magical powers of an unlimited banking account. Why on earth couldn’t he leave her to grow in her own way? Her pride rose at the bare thought of return. She leaned forward, her chin in her palms, her elbows on her knees, and she set her gaze upon his face and kept it there in dreamy contemplation. Miss Stanley, it was manifest, had given him Ann Veronica’s address. She was lovely, painted like the porcelain doll he had always wanted her to be. By the time she was done, the bodies in the bathtub were gathering flies. The unfortunate carpenter struggled violently, but ineffectually.
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