With every step I feared she would tilt forward and tumble, but she managed to stay upright, holding the skirts and the hoop up enough to make it safely down. She appeared not to have noticed the butler, the cat, or me until she reached the foot of the stairs. There she paused while she smoothed the wrinkles in the fabric, and I had a better look at her face. About my age, give or take a few years, she was blonde, with skin so tight across her face it probably hurt her to smile. She appeared thin to the point of emaciation—at least, the parts of her above the skirt did. The bodice of her gown was flat, and her arms were no bigger around than those of an eight-year-old. The butler moved forward until he was two steps away from the woman. “Madam, may I present Mr. Charles Harris and his companion?” That English accent held the trace of a sniff. He obviously wasn’t too keen on the idea of having a stranger’s cat in the house. He turned briefly to me. “Mr. Harris, may I present Mrs.
What do You think about Classified As Murder (2011)?
