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Updated: June 8, 2025
How could he sit there next to that child and not realise that in his longing he was only grasping at a shadow? What was he made of that he saw more beauty in Cynthia Farrow's blue eyes than in the sweet face of his boyhood's love? Sangster was glad when the play was over; theatres always bored him. He did not quite know why he had invited himself to Jimmy's box to-night.
It would have been nearer the truth to say that he had hardly closed his eyes since the night of Cynthia Farrow's death, but he knew that if he said that Sangster would at once bark up the wrong tree, and conclude that he was fretting for her breaking his heart for her, whereas he was doing nothing of the kind.
"She died murdered poisoned." Mark Gifford uttered the dread words very quietly. "Almost certainly poisoned by her husband, Lionel Varick." A mist came over Blanche Farrow's eyes. She turned suddenly sick and faint. She put out her hand blindly. Gifford took it, and made her sit down on a stone bench.
Then at last with a long sigh she slowly turned, and moved across to a row of bookshelves. Perhaps there was light enough for her purpose after all. She began to search along the backs of the books with her face close to them. "Are you looking for Farrow's Treatise on Party Government by any chance?" asked a leisurely voice behind her. She sprang round as if a gun had been discharged in the room.
"If you are looking for Farrow's Treatise on Party Government," remarked a casual voice behind her, "I've got it here." Olga started violently. Any voice would have given her a surprise at that moment, but the voice of Max Wyndham was an absolute shock that set every nerve on edge. He laughed at her from the sofa, on which he sprawled at length.
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