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. Have the goodness to affix your name to that memorandum, Sir Rowland. How can you say such things? You’re too young to be married, and realize this: you’re not ready. I tore the marriage certificate from his pocket and burnt it. He was in misery; he was paying for last night's debauch. It seemed to them they could never have been really alive before, but only dimly anticipating existence.
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