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Agatha Christie
I dashed in at the gate. A group of the servants was in the drive, talking and gesticulating. I caught hold of Françoise.
“What has happened?”
“Oh, monsieur! monsieur! Another death! It is terrible. There is a curse upon the house. But yes, I say it, a curse! They should send for M. le curé to bring some holy water. Never will I sleep another night under that roof. It might be my turn, who knows?”
She crossed herself.
“Yes,” I cried, “but who has been killed?”
“Do I know—me? A man—a stranger. They found him up there—in the shed—not a hundred yards from where they found poor Monsieur. And that is not all. He is stabbed—stabbed to the heart with the same dagger!”
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