" "You are heiress to the Trenchard property," rejoined Jonathan, "one of the largest estates in Lancashire. Fortescue rambled round the garden with soft, propitiatory steps, the Corinthian nose upraised and his hands behind his back, pausing to look long and hard at the fruit-trees against the wall. " "And so Sir Rowland murdered his friend," remarked Wood. She felt his tongue press into her mouth. The red glare fell upon the slimy brick-work, and tinged the inky waters below.
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