The afternoon had passed now into twilight. ’ ‘Only in hot blood, eh?’ grinned Gerald. “One can talk without undertones, so to speak,” said Ramage. 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. Twice Spurlock went to Copeley's—twenty miles to the northwest—for ice and mail. There are cigarettes and magazines in the corner there. " "How so?" inquired Winifred. She would be haunted by the visions of their mad faces in her dreams for the next hundred years. The knowledge breathed into her heart a satisfying warmth. The boiling under her stern, however, told him nothing.
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