’ For a moment Gerald said nothing at all. This was number 13, Montague Street, familiarly spoken of in the neighbourhood as “White’s. Almost the last female to bear the name, too,’ muttered the old lady. ” “It astonishes me that I don’t,” said Manning, in a tone of intense selfenjoyment. Servants were passing backwards and forwards with tea and chocolate. It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls. ‘I can’t do that.
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