“It was poison—why not?” she answered. And the less “anything” happened the better. And, as he was about to put himself into a posture of defence, his mother clasped him in her arms. Her father’s step quickened to a trot. Then she put more coal on, piled it over the ashes, and stood once more upright. Ann Veronica sat firelit by her tea-tray with, quite unconsciously, the air of an expert hostess. “I am not in need of any. I almost wish we hadn't come. Light the lantern.
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