He scratched his upper lip reflectively. He looked at Annabel, whose face was buried in her hands— he looked back at Anna, who was regarding him with an easy composure which secretly irritated him. The conflict was of short duration; for Shotbolt was no match for his athletic antagonist. ‘Still more would I be so if he had come himself to tell me this. You will make her suffer. My reception at West Kensington you know of. Occasionally he revealed tidbits about his past after a good kill.
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