Lights glimmered in the windows of the different houses; and a lamp-lighter was running from post to post on his way to Snow Hill. “You cannot seriously believe,” he said, “that at the present moment I care a snap of the fingers whether I have any dinner or not. ‘Gérard!’ ‘Yes, it’s I,’ he said, and grinned. Here he was almost stunned by the deafening clamour resounding on all sides. It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls.
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