But, uttering a loud cry, he was swept away by the headlong torrent. 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. She was tired, hungry—and thus somewhat impatient for the food Mrs Ibstock might bring—and downcast. Not a word was uttered by the assemblage; but a hush of expectation reigned throughout. She never forced the issue, it was their father’s job. I know what I am talking about. For an instant, Melusine watched him go. For most of a long and fluctuating night she was fairly confident that she would find work; she knew herself to be strong, intelligent, and capable by the standards of most of the girls she knew.
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