A little table covered with a damask cloth was dragged out. No more. It ought not to be much. 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. It was—in connection with this man Hill. She was perhaps as near tears as ever before in her life. “Your name, I believe, is——” “Pellissier,” Anna answered. This time you cannot. Clientèle was of the most transitory character.
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