She stopped abruptly, and looked in a flower-shop window. “I saw him stagger and sink down, and the pistol was smoking still in my hand. The London backgrounds, in Bloomsbury and Marylebone, against which these people went to and fro, took on, by reason of their gray facades, their implacably respectable windows and window-blinds, their reiterated unmeaning iron railings, a stronger and stronger suggestion of the flavor of her father at his most obdurate phase, and of all that she felt herself fighting against. Voices floated down, but there was no sound of pursuit.
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