She returned home through a world that was as roseate as it had been gray overnight. “Smirched!. You called yourself a murderess. ’ He called through the library door. D'ye hear. Few men could have done as much. It was as if her finite human brain could only store a limit of information, details like hair color and fingernail shape easily jettisoned to make room for the nuances of a grin or the emotion of a shoulder blade. Then she called a hansom and drove home.
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