"Not so," replied Jack, throwing down the skreen. Or perhaps my father once. The man pulled up his horse grumbling, and turned round. Even now she could trace the outline of his shape behind the left-hand curtain. Imbecile. In twenty minutes we meet in the hall, remember. It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls.
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