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. “Sir John!” Annabel gasped. "Not I," replied Blueskin. ‘Monsieur Charvill,’ pursued Valade, ‘has left the chateau, and since we have heard from him nothing at all, but for the letters to his daughter from Italy. “It isn’t quite that we’re toys. ’ ‘Remenham House,’ exclaimed Trodger, who had been watching this interchange open-mouthed. His invalid wife and her money had been only the thin thread that held his life together; beaded on that permanent relation had been an inter-weaving series of other feminine experiences, disturbing, absorbing, interesting, memorable affairs. ’ Colour suffused the man’s face.
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