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. The Procession to Tyburn 462 XXXII. "I have killed her," exclaimed Jack, dropping the bar,—"by your advice, Thames. Looked like them statues of the Holy Mother I see about the place. ‘Your master in?’ he demanded of the astonished footman, removing his cockaded hat and handing it over. ‘Am I right in supposing you to have been a sister to the late Mr Jarvis Remenham?’ ‘Quite right. He turned his eyes and stared at Miss Garvice like one who wakes from a reverie, and then got up and strolled down the laboratory toward his refuge, the preparation-room. His brain reeled.
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