Perhaps she was. She gathered stones to place upon the makeshift grave. Originally built, as its name imports, in a cylindrical form, like a modern Martello tower, it had undergone, from time to time, so many alterations, that its symmetry was, in a great measure, destroyed. “It was poison—why not?” she answered. One doesn’t want to lose a grain. An audible crack sounded in the kitchen and Mark slumped backwards, unconscious. It would surely be only common politeness to drop her a hint—a fellow countrywoman too. Earles asked sharply. “I am going,” she said grimly, with three hairpins in her mouth.
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