E. ” She looked at him quizzically. "And me," added Mrs. She's my mealticket. All the sombre visions she had been pressing back, fighting out of her thoughts, swarmed over the barrier and crushed her. 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. Spurling, you're a witness to the bet. They WERE weird. He was content to watch her accepting compliments and gaudy bouquets full of red roses, white carnations, and purple statice. Her hands wove through his black hair, luxuriating in its thickness. If he laid his own suspicions boldly before the girl, and in the end the boy came clean, he would always be haunted by the witless cruelty of the act.
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