" This exclamation had scarcely escaped him, when the discharge of a pistol was heard, and a bullet whizzed past his ears. She ran to the lamp and extinguished it. He continued thoughtfully. . ‘I thought—I thought I saw my—my husband. On the next morning—Sunday—the day on which he expected his mother's funeral to take place, he set out along the Harrow Road. . It was an overcast day, albeit not foggy, and the electric light shades glowed warmly, and an Italian waiter with insufficient English took Ramage’s orders, and waited with an appearance of affection. C. .
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