Having ascertained that Thames was at his heels, he hurried with his ghastly burthen down Seacoal Lane. The family always managed to make it home for supper, even though it was a dying custom. “Is this hansom for me?” she said. 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. I’m off to England.
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