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. "As I said before, I have little reliance upon professions of gratitude. The flowers and turf, a wild strawberry, a rare butterfly, and suchlike little intimate things had become more interesting than mountains. ’ ‘Ah, you know about that, then?’ ‘That much, yes. How will I get an Englishman to wed me if they know that I behave not at all comme il faut?’ ‘Perhaps the Englishman in question will not care,’ suggested Prudence, with a twinkle in her eye for which Melusine was quite unable to account. The house was full of aunts, uncles, and cousins meandering about, stuffed until their seams and zippers were bursting. Her husband was drinking in the tavern with the other guests.
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