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. “I’ve been thinking of you all night,” she answered. “I suppose I shall have to write an answer. Now lend me your own hand. But they will also find you. She made noises between weeping and laughter as she went. There's nothing on the card to indicate it, but I'm a detective.
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