Her aunt was blandly amiable above a certain tremulous undertow, and talked as if to a caller about the alarming spread of marigolds that summer at the end of the garden, a sort of Yellow Peril to all the smaller hardy annuals, while her father brought some papers to table and presented himself as preoccupied with them. . Annabel passed on with a strained nod to her sister, and Sir John’s bow was a miracle of icy displeasure. She didn’t trust Gianfrancesco, you know, she called him a ‘bad husband’. She went about the gory business of disposing of the bodies, cutting them up with a large butcher knife and packing the light dry pieces of their bloodless remains in a double ply garbage bag, pieces that looked like overcooked, ruined meat. These were seated in an imperfect semicircle about a very copper-adorned fireplace, surmounted by a carved wood inscription: “DO IT NOW. He too, when she had disappeared, called a carriage. Time after time he sent Spurlock into this corner or that; but always the boy regained his feet before the murderous boot could reach the mark.
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