’ ‘But where then is Gosse?’ demanded Melusine. “I am very glad that you have come here. ‘At me,’ she uttered, holding her own pistol high and aiming it steadily. Here he halted; and, looking upwards, read, at the foot of an immense sign-board, displaying a gaudily-painted angel with expanded pinions and an olive-branch, not the name he expected to find, but that of WILLIAM KNEEBONE, WOOLLENDRAPER. The well of tears in her eyes was dry. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music.
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