” He writhed. ‘Murder is serious business, Gianfrancesco. What sort of proof? There are no papers at Remenham House. Ever since the young police officer had arrived on her doorstep the clock had started ticking faster. He fancied that the whole fabric of the bridge was cracking over head,—that the arch was tumbling upon him,—that the torrent was swelling around him, whirling him off, and about to bury him in the deafening abyss. " Lady Trafford sighed deeply.
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