Hill lost a little of his truculency. If, when he returned, he blew out the light, she would go to bed; but if the light burned on for any length of time, she would go silently to the study curtain to learn if his agony was still upon him. “Oh, you know,” she said. She stabbed him with her canines. By and by—as the paroxysm subsided and he became motionless—she stole back to the bungalow to wait. Here was a poor half-naked creature, with a straw crown on his head, and a wooden sceptre in his hand, seated on the ground with all the dignity of a monarch on his throne. Conceiving himself called upon, as the intimate friend of the deceased, to pay this last tribute of respect to her memory, he appeared as one of the chief mourners. "Come along, my sly shaver. The procession now wound its way, without further interruption, along Holborn.
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