“Impossible to say,” he answered. 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. She was on the rim of civilization, entering, as Spurlock was on the rim, preparing to make his exit. The lunches were individual affairs: sandwiches, bottled olives and jam commandeered from the Victoria.
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