CHAPTER FOURTEENMargaret Thackrey
Margaret was as good as her word. She got to work, forcing herself to sit and recall those old, disturbing things that had been buried for so long in her mind. As the outline had been completed in her eidetic memory before Robert’s death, it was no great chore. That merciless memory held everything, and she had only to relive every moment. The betrayals of trust and of honor had been, she found, an integral part of the game in which she found herself taking part.
Her own people had been earth-solid, without guile, and contemptuous of liars and their lies. Even in publishing, where deceit was a part of doing business, she did not have to deal with it, for her agent did that. Cynicism had never been a part of her makeup, and it had come as a cruel shock to
