His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. “I couldn’t help it. Spurling in alarm. " "Don't say so," cried Mrs. What a frightened fool he was! If he could not remember her name, it was equally possible that already she had forgotten his. The person, shortly afterwards ushered into the room, seemed by the imperfect light,—for the evening was advancing, and the chamber darkened by heavy drapery,—to be a middle-sized middle-aged man, of rather vulgar appearance, but with a very shrewd aspect. Spurling. But when he looked again, there she was! "I don't understand," he said, finally. Wait!" He released himself from his aunt's embrace, ran to the trunk and fetched the old coat. 6. "In this pit," he added, pointing to the chasm below, "your brother is buried. Not a job he may care about; but he's a good sport.
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