Stanley regarded him through his glasses with something approaching animosity. "Water!" he gasped. 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 stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. He said the place had gone to wrack. —'We'll do it,' said they, filling their glasses, and looking as fierce as King George's grenadier guards; 'here's your health, Mint. She dreaded leaving him for the night, but separated herself finally. You’re a lady.
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