Anna rummaged about in her dressingcase, and finally drew out a letter. 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. Not far from him was a knot of lads drinking, swearing, and playing at dice as eagerly and as skilfully as any of the older hands. He was safe, out of the beaten track, at last really comparable to the needle in the haystack. “But you yourself,” she exclaimed, glancing into his face, “you too look tired.
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