Vexation at his folly in suffering himself to be thus entrapped kept Wood for a short time silent. This was number 13, Montague Street, familiarly spoken of in the neighbourhood as “White’s. She was finally dead, going to Hell. The floor was strewn with screws, nails, fragments of wood and stone, and across the passage lay the heavy iron fillet. Anything else that was said she now regarded only as an aspect of or diversion from that. He shivered and looked behind as he stepped into his hansom. The spinsters—who on the morrow would vanish out of the girl's life for ever—had already left their imprint upon her imagination. A curious silence ensued. I want to hear how she does it. Gosse sagged under the impact, knocking over the card table, and falling to sit, half stunned, the discharged pistol flying from his slackened grasp. He laughed. Scarcely any one noticed the full measure of her consternation. It reverberated in the silence. A skeleton was propped against the mantelpiece.
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