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"Do you really think she killed him?" asked Lady Meg, her face growing pale with the intensity of her excitement. Mrs. Dallas was a large, fat and eminently lazy woman, who passed most of her time in knitting or sleeping or eating. Her husband had died before she had come to England, and it was the desire to preserve her daughter's health which had brought her so far from the sun-baked islands which her soul loved. I withered him with a look, or rather tried to wither him, for Tom is no mimosa bud..
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"Exactly. Isabella Dallas, and none other, killed your boy Maurice." "So far as I can remember, I left by my bedroom window. I had only to step out through it like a door, as it is a French window and opens onto the lawn." And, furthermore, I didn't like that next hour much, just as a sample of life, for instance. Aunt Bettie had got her joining-together humour well started, and there, before my face, she made a present of every nice man in Hillsboro to that lovely, distinguished, strange girl who could have slipped through a bucket hoop if she had tried hard. I had to sit there, listen to the presentations, watch her drink two delicious cups of tea full of sugar and cream, and consume without fear three of Jane's puffy cakes, while I crumbled mine in secret and set half the cup of tea out of sight behind a fern pot. "She filled the devil-stick with the poison which was used to kill him," retorted the major, coldly, "and she confesses to having aided him in stealing the body.".
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