The assassination, as you call it, was, obviously, the vengeance of a kinsman of the injured lady, who no doubt was of good family, upon her seducer. Spurlock was no longer a man before this instinct; he was a child in trouble. She entered the kitchen. At the eastern gate of the churchyard stood the carriage with the steps lowered. It was long and narrow, a well-lit, wellventilated, quiet gallery of small tables and sinks, pervaded by a thin smell of methylated spirit and of a mitigated and sterilized organic decay.
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