His gaze caught on the woman briefly, something about her reminding him of Jetta. He couldn’t say what. Her face was smudged with dirt and he couldn’t see her hair—it was secured on her head and covered with a kerchief—and she certainly didn’t walk like Jetta. This woman’s stride was confident and quick, while Jetta tended to walk slowly and cautiously if she walked at all.
Methinks someone’s going to try to kill the maid, or she’s Jetta’s sister.
