“Ever yours, “ANNABEL. I like high tone for a flourish and stars and ideas; but I want my things. " So saying, he threw himself into a chair. “You silly wimmin,” he said over and over again throughout the hearing, plucking at his blotting-pad with busy hands. 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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