“Well,” he said, argumentatively, “it IS. One never knew when it would be necessary to resume her disguise. Then Capes’ footsteps approached. Pile it on! But if you can hear the voice of the mote, the speck, don't let her suffer for anything I've done. Then the foremost bowed and passed on. 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.
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