‘But do you think I can blame you for this, Marthe?’ ‘I blame myself. He's a Welshman, and I wouldn't for a trifle that any accident befel him. She sat, crouched together, by the corner of the hearthrug under the bookcase that supported the pig’s skull, and looked into the fire and up at Ann Veronica’s face, and let herself go. Jonathan smiled contemptuously. "You thank Heaven for the escape of the man who did his best to get your child's neck twisted.
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