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. But it is all over now, and presently there will be some one else. Ann Veronica looked down at her fingers on the claret-colored table-cloth. ‘So it is that you have made Jacques betray me. ‘It is London’s loss, ma’am.
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