Oh, and only look at those stains,’ cried Miss Froxfield, gesturing at the blood on the ruffles to the sleeves of Melusine’s riding-habit, and on the chemise she wore under it. She was clad in fresh linen, but still wore the riding-habit she had appropriated, having sponged out the spots of blood late last night and left it to dry in the kitchens. You don’t understand. Then it came to her with a shock, as an extraordinary oversight, that she could never tell Manning about Ramage—never. "There won't be much left for you," he said.
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