The carte de jour was before Monsieur. Hearing a noise below, Quilt called out, supposing it occasioned by the Jew. You don’t know the thoughts we have; the things we can do and say. I barely prevailed sometimes, but in the end, my wits were faster than their steel. 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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