‘They lived with him, one after the other, for all the world as his wife. Then she stood up and looked around the room. I know he is dead. There had been disappointments and humiliations, and although she hated to admit it even to herself, she was in desperate straits. 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 had gone with the rest. Melusine turned and turned, unable to imagine just where the secret door could be.
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