“Sir John is not at all that sort. He thought of her and himself, and no longer in that vein of incidental adventure in which he had begun. They will say that it was murder. The odd creak was not to be avoided in an old house such as this. God bless you, Auntie! I'll go into the mills and make pulp with my bare hands, if you want me to. It was an awful moment—so awful, that every other feeling except deep interest in the scene seemed suspended. . . The smells of skewered fennel, roast chicken, and broiled pheasant saturated the air, and she could smell other wonderful aromas about them.
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