S. Drummond was telling me about the way old Ferringhall rounded upon them all at the club. Yet every now and then, during the progress of the meal, his attention apparently wandered, and leaning forward he glanced covertly at Anna with a curious mixture of expressions on his face. Her expression was a little changed, less innocent, more discerning. She could still smell the now familiar scent of him on the girl's body in the makeshift grave.
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