’ There was a pause. Their conversation degenerated again and again into a strain of self-congratulation that would have irked an eavesdropper. ” He shrugged his shoulders. ” “It would suit me. Ramage did not know. " And he struck up the following ballad:— SAINT GILES'S BOWL. ‘You ought to be glad someone cares enough about your wretched little neck to try and save it. ’ Mrs Sindlesham’s lips twitched. You don’t know what you’re saying, and I hope you never will. You have only to look resolute and proceed upon your way. The amazing tonic of the thought! From time to time she laid her hand upon Spurlock's forehead: it was still cold. He told some of the particulars. Superstition—you knock into it whichever way you turn.
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