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 think,” he said, “that some one ought to warn her. Do you know, Ann Veronica, it is all a lie about your birth certificate; a forgery—and fooling at that. She answered in whispers, for there was the white arm of a woman in the next box peeping beyond the partition within a yard of him.
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