And Mrs. Manning, her aunt and father, neighbors, customs, traditions, forces. She felt the whack from about six feet away, kitty corner. He was just getting cross about your being late for dinner—you know his way—when it came. It’s just that I want to say. As she came close, he took a pace forward and seized her from behind, one strong arm clamping her tight against his chest, the free hand seizing her about the mouth, stifling the cry that gurgled in her throat. The old lady clearly read his state of mind, for the apparently irrepressible dimple peeped out. At the corner of Liquorpond Street stood the old Hampstead coach-office; and, on the night in question, a knot of hostlers, waggoners, drivers, and stable-boys was collected in the yard. He delayed the blow till the fortunate conjuncture was past. The skies became brilliant; the dry monsoon was setting in.
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