Bird,—who was rushing up stairs, alarmed by Mr. ‘I don’t want that girl running her head into any more danger. I shall quit this roof to-morrow. A short way off in the fields he descried a sort of shed or cow-house, and thither he contrived to drag his weary limbs. Past her shot the little old lady in the bonnet, running incredibly fast, but otherwise still alertly respectable, and she was making a strange threatening sound as she ran, such as one would use in driving ducks out of a garden—“B-rr-r-r-r—!” and pawing with black-gloved hands. Here, indeed, was a type with which he had never until now come into contact—a natural woman. That is how I learned that there were such things as novels. Wood's, the carpenter in Wych Street. ’ The listening soldiers began to snigger behind their hands. She spent the morning up to ten in writing a series of unsuccessful letters to Ramage, which she tore up unfinished; and finally she desisted and put on her jacket and went out into the lamp-lit obscurity and slimy streets.
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