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. Things seem to come rather easily. “Oh! He’s wonderful! Isobella, you are truly blessed!” She said as she held the baby. Only that I was prevented by one of those soldiers that caught me in the big house. She was inclined to think that perhaps for a girl the converse of his method was the case; an older man, a man beyond the range of anything “nonsensical,” was, perhaps, the most interesting sort of friend one could meet. His first reaction had been explosive as the hurts of the past rose up to taunt him. I don’t know what has come over me.
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