"You musht do dat shob yourself, Mishter Vild," rejoined Abraham, shaking his head. But it doesn’t alter the situation. 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. At least I can’t talk to them. Great stone staircases leading no one knew whither, and long gloomy passages, impressed the occasional visitor with the idea that he was traversing a building of vast extent; and, though this was not the case in reality, the deception was so cleverly contrived that it seldom failed of producing the intended effect. He wondered if these abnormal mental activities presaged illness. Marry, come up! I've been a great deal too charitable. There was a maiden aunt who lived in the North who might let her live there for a few weeks until she disappeared. You’re dogmatic.
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