Her mother had died when she was thirteen, her two much older sisters had married off—one submissively, one insubordinately; her two brothers had gone out into the world well ahead of her, and so she had made what she could of her father. His face was very serious. He seemed so clean anyway, his fair 215 skin, his light brown hair, there almost seemed to be no point. ‘You’ve found her out?’ ‘Tell us at once,’ urged Miss Froxfield. Knives were worse, especially when you were stabbed back and left traces of your own blood at the crime scene. “Anna of course would not accept any money from us,” she continued. So, at least, thought one of two persons who were seated together in a small back-parlour of the house at Dollis Hill.
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