She sat in a chair in the parlour and regarded the darkening sky through the small casement window. ‘At me,’ she uttered, holding her own pistol high and aiming it steadily. Annabel half filled her glass with wine, and taking a little folded packet from her plate, shook the contents into it. And what on earth do you want to darken your eyebrows and use so much make-up for at your age? You’re exactly twenty-three, and you’re got up as much as a woman of forty-five.
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