My wife—killed me. . Her aunt leaped unhappily to the thought of penitence. "Not in the least," returned Kneebone, slyly, "not in the least. She pulled down her veil and made her way to the door. At the back of the house, on a bank, rose an old-fashioned terrace-garden, full of apple-trees and other fruittrees in blossom, and lively with the delicious verdure of early spring.
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