"Constance—or, rather, Mrs. “Who killed her husband?” “Go and nurse him, missus!” “Murderess!” Anna looked from left to right. “No, not that I know of,” Michelle replied, her still eyes not meeting Lucy’s. A dark mass of wreckage, over which hung a slight mist of vapour, lay half in the ditch, half across the hedge, close under a tree from the trunk of which the bark had been torn and stripped.
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