In any case, there was no doing anything on a Sunday and Brewis Charvill, his main quarry, had gone out of town unexpectedly. She leaned back in the corner of the cab with a little sigh of relief. 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. Depend upon it, there is a place for you—waiting. If they become bad it is through inclination, not necessity.
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