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. It was Celeste’s idea. When her shock and the headache subsided, and she remembered that she had been reading the letter when Gosse had accosted her, she looked for it in vain. He had saluted her with elaborate civility, his eyes distended with indecipherable meanings. It might prove rewarding. Ireton will do no such thing," replied the head-turnkey.
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