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“You go home and think of all this,” he said, “and talk about it to-morrow. " "My dear," said the hospitable carpenter, "I dare say Mr. It isn’t illusions—for us. “Tell your sister she was right to shoot, quite right. Wood, "it may be poisoned. ‘Here, miss,’ came faintly from somewhere close at hand. Lucy had passed the house once on the sidewalk, on a rare day when he was shoveling snow. There was first the Avenue, which ran in a consciously elegant curve from the railway station into an undeveloped wilderness of agriculture, with big, yellow brick villas on either side, and then there was the pavement, the little clump of shops about the postoffice, and under the railway arch was a congestion of workmen’s dwellings. So I packed up and came to London next day. “Accident! She shot me,” he muttered.
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