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. Keeping hold of the doorhandle, she turned slowly. The Victorians over-did it a little, I admit. “Now I’ll have what I want from you, wife. I’ll kill you, Sheila, and I’ll kill her too.
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