Spurlock mused over the previous night. For that matter, my future be damned. Annabel, I cannot believe it. 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. If my conjectures are right, this boy would stay there indefinitely. A little Madeira seemed to recover her enough to resume the discussion. I must have been very wound up.
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