He whispered in her ear. “I wish,” she said, “that you would leave off looking at me as though I were something grisly. Puffy blue curtains dressed every oakstained window. I have been imaging—” “Mr. ‘Wait! No time for that. ” She gestured to an abandoned farmhouse down a long stretch of icy dirt road. The postilion obeyed, and dashed off as hard as his horses could gallop along the beautiful road leading to Neasdon and Willesden, just as the serving-men made their appearance. ” “No, that’s okay. " "Never mind it, my dear Mrs. 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.
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