“There was a man called Montague Hill,” she said hoarsely, “but he is dead. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. I hate children. ’ She sighed. There was now no honest way of warning Taber that the net had been drawn. Me—I’m nothing but a country wench, and one who went to the bad. ‘At me,’ she uttered, holding her own pistol high and aiming it steadily. "I lost a very valuable one some time ago. That would be him. All that I regret are the wasted years, and I am not sure that I regret them. It was the bitterest moment of her life. " "Company!" echoed Rachel; "at this time of night?" "Company, child," repeated Kneebone.
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