She knew that she ought to have thought of the possibility of this happening, to have visualised herself in her present terrible situation. But she had not. She had thought that, at worst, Rowley would be stricken with another attack, that he would go purple in the face and become unconscious just as he had in Venice and Granada. But she had long since learned the first-aid treatment for a coronary. She had only to force him to swallow a couple of the pills the doctor had prescribed for such an emergency, and the worst would be over. Then she would telephone the doctor to come at once. For a few days Rowley would have to remain in bed, and then there would be another period of convalescence. When he had fully recovered, she would make him swear never, never to come to her room again. But he was not going to recover. He was dead. She was positive of it. Taking Rowley by the shoulders, she exerted all her strength, heaved his heavy body sideways, stretched out an arm and switched on the bedside light.
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