"You know my motive well enough," answered Jonathan. Annabel had taken her life into her hands with gay insouciance, had made her own friends, gone her own way. 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. His advice was mostly practical. He found a coach at the door, with the blinds carefully drawn up, and ascertained from a tall, ill-looking, though tawdrily-dressed fellow, who held his horse by the bridle, and whom he addressed as Quilt Arnold, that the two boys were safe inside, in the custody of Abraham Mendez, the dwarfish Jew. One point in her narrative stood out beyond all others. She found pieces of it on the blacktop near the green dumpster, amazingly small pieces considering the fabric’s original heft. Annabel saw it, and suddenly changed her tone. There were words, then, that ran on indefinitely, with reversals? Here they meant one thing; there, the exact opposite. Are you sure you're not misinformed, Sir?" "I was in the Lodge at the time," replied the jailer.
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