The manager twisted his moustache. 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. I wasn't taught that; I simply fell into it from contact. "Fear nothing, Sir," said the man, in a voice which Thames instantly recognised as that of Blueskin. . One of these, a lady, evidently a confirmed invalid, and attired in deep mourning, reclined upon a sort of couch, or easy chair, set on wheels, with her head supported by cushions, and her feet resting upon a velvet footstool.
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