. ’ ‘Militia, miss,’ Kimble corrected her. Against the walls hung an assortment of staves, brown-bills, (weapons then borne by the watch,) muskets, handcuffs, great-coats, and lanterns. I'll go alone. On this side was a razor with which a son had murdered his father; the blade notched, the haft crusted with blood: on that, a bar of iron, bent, and partly broken, with which a husband had beaten out his wife's brains. Think—think of that engagement!” Their talk had come to eloquent silences that contradicted all he had to say. Over these boards the two arms of a guide-post serve to direct the wayfarer—on the right hand to the neighbouring villages of Neasdon and Kingsbury, and on the left to the Edgeware Road and the healthy heights of Hampstead. She responded at once, rapping him on the knuckles with her fan. The lighting-up pierced the obscurity of the box, and Ramage stopped his urgent flow of words abruptly and sat back. She wedged the towel between her legs.
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