“Well,” he said, argumentatively, “it IS. ” She nodded in the affirmative. 13 with a latchkey went humming lightly up to her room. You don’t have to live forever to understand that. Your husband could have told you that. 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. Nevertheless, relief washed over her, her body rejoicing in the afterglow of twenty years of tension released. “Are these ordinary sapphires?” she said.
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