‘Your wife?’ ‘My wife,’ he repeated, rising also, his smile mocking her. She spent the morning up to ten in writing a series of unsuccessful letters to Ramage, which she tore up unfinished; and finally she desisted and put on her jacket and went out into the lamp-lit obscurity and slimy streets. “I believe,” he said, “that you mean me to be Prime Minister. Beside me on Anna’s table was a pistol. He was, however, instantly beaten back; and the fury of the mob was so great that it was with difficulty he could effect a retreat. Her foster father had been outside for most of the morning, working on trimming the maple trees and mowing the lawn.
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