“Whither away?” he said, very distinctly in a curiously wheedling voice. You are my prisoner, murderer. "A thousand pounds," he observed, gloomily, "is a heavy price to pay for doubtful secrecy, when certain silence might be so cheaply procured. When she came to, she was lying with her head in Martha’s lap, and a livid bruise was forming at the point of a raging headache. ‘It—it is—nothing,’ she uttered jerkily.
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