oiled with venom only.
“Ye’d best run, Ian Whitegate. The law won’t be far off now. My Mary’s a good girl. Always does as she’s told.”
Ian moved, thinking to snatch up her cane and strike at her, but Poole held him back.
“She may be right.”
Ian began to protest, for obvious reasons, but he saw that the jealous hatred had receded from Poole’s earnest gaze. Poole leaned in, and whispered a quick word, at which Ian nodded, and made to run as best he could in spite of being injured, out through the rear of the estate.
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