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. This done, he unloosed the pulley, and the ponderous machine, which resembled a trough, slowly descended upon the prisoner's breast. He could not see these two shrinking misses capering about in a nun’s habit and brandishing a defiant pistol. "My child!" he groaned faintly. “You’re still,” he said, “in the educational years. ’ Still no response.
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