She was retuning, fifths spilling from the sliver of light underneath the door like milk. Though scarcely two hours past midnight, it was perfectly light. Or appeared to do so. Then as she drew nearer paint showed upon her face, and a harsh purpose behind the quiet expression of her open countenance, and a sort of unreality in her splendor betrayed itself for which Ann Veronica could not recall the right word—a word, half understood, that lurked and hid in her mind, the word “meretricious. "No, I won't hear you, murderer," rejoined Wood.
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