I should think, Anna, that your own sense—er—of propriety would enable you to see this. He just wants to get laid. Lucy heard a stir, but if Dawn Plote were to arise and come into the room, it could only mean two murders tonight. You didn’t even put the twelve words. She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think. "Read that.
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