"I can't help thinking of it, Sir," answered the widow. I loitered in the shop as you chatted with the butcher’s girl. “It is a night of endings,” she murmured to herself. “Have to take your turn,” he remarked laconically. Will you not remember what has passed between us? I have the right to take my place by your side. Upon a table, where they had been hastily deposited, on the intelligence of Darrell's accident, lay a pair of pink kid gloves, bordered with lace, and an enormous fan; the latter, when opened, represented the metamorphosis and death of Actæon. With this she now entered.
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