Thames Darrell MUST die. On reaching the churchyard, he perceived the melancholy procession descending the hill. Ann Veronica, after a last survey of the dinner appointments, followed him, rustling, came to his side by the high brass fender, and touched two or three ornaments on the mantel above the cheerful fireplace. Hill again—alive. What was the fellow doing in this part of the town? Had not Lady Bicknacre said he was living at Paddington? The Frenchman, booted and neat in buckskin breeches and a plain frockcoat, a flat-brimmed hat on his head, paused a moment at an intersection with one of the roads leading north, apparently seeking a street sign. The recollection of all her unhappiness, the loveless years, the unending loneliness, the injustice of it, rolled up to her lips in verbal lava. He was standing at the moment close to the hatch, with his ear at the keyhole, and received a severe blow in the face. “Ciao. ’ Shock spread across her lovely features. .
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