He probably imagines himself to be a thousand times worse off than he actually is. 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. Very quietly, he added, “Oh Lucia, I’m sorry. A stack of chimneys, on the house above them, had yielded to the storm, and descended in a shower of bricks and stones. It might as well be Melusine herself.
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