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. There were so many things about her which he could not understand. Gerald guessed she was biting her tongue on an explosive retort as she eyed him. He was standing up with the telegram crumpled in his hand. Anna was still holding her cigarette between her fingers. In the hall below she could hear his firm voice giving quick commands to the servants.
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