Her white shirt was mired with a central bloodstain, his pants caked with mud. The flowers upon the mantel-shelf were withered and drooping—she had gathered them. “Is this a concession to Mrs. " "I'll have no explanations whatever," replied the carpenter, disdainfully, "except before a magistrate. . ’ The questions that had long haunted her came out at last. ’ ‘Yes, I’m sorry about that,’ Gerald uttered in a rueful tone.
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