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The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 03, No. 18, April, 1859 by Various
page 30 of 306 (09%)
damask-covered chair, with his feet on an embroidered ottoman, turning
over a bound collection of sea-mosses, and Marcia's guitar lying across
his lap. He was dumb with astonishment. Polite Number Two did not leave
him to burst in ignorance.

"All right. Mr. Sandford, I suppose. An 'tachment put on, and I'm
keeper. Sorry to disturb a family. But somebody has to. Can I do anything
to obleege you?"

"Yes, by laying down that book which you are spoiling. And you may take
your greasy boots off that worsted-work, and put the stopper into that
Bohemian-glass bottle."

"Beg your pardon, Sir. Didn't intend to make trouble. Boots has to be
greased, you know, else they crack all out, an' don't last no time; mine
do. This 'ere Cologne is nice, to be sure. I jest poured out a bit on my
pocket-handkercher."

"Cologne! It's attar of roses; and you've spilled more than your neck is
worth,--taking yourself at your own valuation."

"Why, you don't say this is high-cost? It does smell good, though, ha!"

As he started to go up-stairs, Mr. Sandford saw the linen carpet-cover
spattered with frequent drops of blood. He called aloud to his sister,--

"Marcia! are you there? alive? What's the meaning of this blood? Who has
been murdered? Or is this turned into a butcher's shop?"

Marcia and her sister-in-law descended, and hurriedly explained the
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