It was a motor accident—a fatal motor accident the evening papers called it. “I shan’t eat him. . Sepulchre's clock struck eight. "Try!" Enraged at the assurance of his mistress, the woollen-draper endeavoured to carry his threat into execution, but all his efforts to remove her were unavailing. His looks were fixed on his old benefactor. ’ ‘But you must,’ Gerald said, quite as if he meant it. The other bona roba, known amongst her companions as Mistress Poll Maggot, was a beauty on a much larger scale,—in fact, a perfect Amazon.
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