‘That’s why I never told Joan Ibstock that you were still with me when I wrote. She cried for hours but would not scream as her mother was packed into a marble coffin. Drummond took up a cigarette and lit it. What the devil is her name, now we know she isn’t you?’ ‘Yolande,’ supplied Melusine. She was not squeamish—although the sight of the sergeant’s ominous preparations had severely tried her fortitude—but Kimble’s white face plagued her conscience. That had shut him up for a while.
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