Which is why I wasn’t able to see him until today. 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. He opened it—just off-hand, and then when he saw what it was he hit at the table and sent his soup spoon flying and splashing on to the tablecloth. A glance down the passage—to see that Roding was not lurking?—and her face came back to Gerald, triumph in her eyes. She could have kissed Cathy.
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