Sepulchre's bell is for ever ringing in my ears—oh!" "If that's the case," observed Wood, "I'm surprised you should like to have such a frightful picture constantly in view as that over the chimney-piece. She touched it, and her gaze lifted. Battle, murder, and sudden death—and an old chap like McClintock tuning his piano in the midst of it. She could hear the bell tinkle as the horse shook its head. When Gianfrancesco came to call this time, she was excited and ready. But De Maupassant—sheer off! Stick to Dickens and Thackeray and Hugo.
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