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 wanted to cry out upon herself for the uttermost fool in existence. ‘It is you who is the fool,’ she threw at him, whipping round again. “May I ask whether you are staying with friends in town?” he inquired deferentially. But, by Jove! you are fierce! You are like those Roman women who carry stilettos in their hair. I have fulfilled my part of our marriage contract.
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