Death belongs to God, young man. She was obliged, as she explained continually to every one who cared to listen, to be so very particular. "It's a fine idea, my child, but you mustn't do it. Very well. “Women know these things by instinct,” she answered. She had only to get through this, to solace Manning as much as she could, to put such clumsy plasterings on his wounds as were possible, and then, anyhow, she would be free—free to put her fate to the test. The mighty concourse became for a moment still. ‘See that writing table? Go and look in the drawer there.
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