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. If he took a fancy to you, he invited you to the house for tea, bitter and yellow and served in little cups without handles. ‘She’s still bleeding. ’ Gerald was staring at her, an arrested expression on his face. The rain smelled of the Tyrrhenian Sea, which lay only a few paces beyond the manor's white sea-soaked walls.
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