Upon my word—you are Miss Pellissier, aren’t you?” “I certainly am,” she admitted. It is like some accident. Her heels made contact with Rhea’s knees and hobbled her with a crack. Uttering a terrible imprecation, Blueskin placed the knife between his teeth, and endeavoured to seize the poor woman by the throat. 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 directed the orchestra to tune again.
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