“It was only yesterday I had your letter, and you never mentioned coming over. The birds were singing blithely amid the trees,—the lowing of the cows resounded from the yard,—a delicious perfume from the garden was wafted through the open window,—at a distance, the church-bells of Willesden were heard tolling for evening service. Though Lucy refused to personally implicate her, Mr. I'll knock off at tea. So appalling was the sight, that even the murderers—familiar as they were with scenes of slaughter,—looked aghast at it. His fingers slipped under the collar of her linen shift and he tore it open with a swipe. ‘She’s still bleeding.
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