"The blood that has been spilt is that of his wife. The clouds were nearly black with rain, threatening to spill sleet in daggers and torrents. “Lucy, this isn’t funny anymore. “But the thing is, I want a job. 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. Perhaps you’ve heard—?’ Well, you know, he had.
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