The parlour was cluttered but cosy. She assumed with a kind of mesmeric force all the propositions that Ann Veronica wanted her to define. 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. He had finally put aside The Lilac Sunbonnet, gone into his study, lit the gas fire, and written the letter that had brought these unsatisfactory relations to a head. She was going to him soon and certainly, going to his strong, embracing arms.
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