Part 2 She found the younger generation of the Widgetts engaged in languid reminiscences, and all, as they expressed it, a “bit decayed. “I don’t believe there is one. They give themselves airs, but so it is. 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 began to talk again in quick undertones that she could not clearly hear. “Who tied this scarf here?” he asked, looking up.
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