‘I thought it must be you,’ cried the woman. Marvel, who had been a little discomposed by the treatment he had experienced on Holborn Hill, very composedly filled and lighted his pipe. Her white shirt was mired with a central bloodstain, his pants caked with mud. He dug about in his mind for a term to fit her, and he came upon the word new. 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. Her cheeks were aflame. I’ve got to stay at home and remain in a state of suspended animation. "Try!" Enraged at the assurance of his mistress, the woollen-draper endeavoured to carry his threat into execution, but all his efforts to remove her were unavailing.
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