I—I am a lovesick idiot, and not accountable for my actions. Perhaps the day of her recompense was at hand. The assassination, as you call it, was, obviously, the vengeance of a kinsman of the injured lady, who no doubt was of good family, upon her seducer. She could still remember his face, the perpetually wet lips that turned down at the sides, his drooping Roman eyes. “It was a phase,” she said. I did all for the best, I'm sure. But, what brought you here?" "Excuse me, Sir Rowland. Above her head was an aura of white fire.
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