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He clicked deprecatingly with his tongue as Winona became detailed in her narrative. "My great glory!" he exclaimed at last. "You mean to say they mix it down there every afternoon?" "Every single day," confirmed Winona. "He's been going to that low dive for weeks and weeks. Think of the debasing associations!" "Just think of it!" said Sharon, impatiently.
Something that clicked in Peter's mind led him to look sharply from one to the other of the two women. In Bloombury they had a way, he knew, of not missing any point of their neighbours' affairs, but their faces expressed no trace of an appreciation of anything in the subject being applicable to his. The flick of memory passed and left him wondering why it should be.
Cuckoo looked at him, wondering. Then she said: "I believe I could fight better 'n pray." "Sometimes battle is the greatest of all prayers," said the doctor. The iron gate clicked. He was gone. Cuckoo cast an oblique glance up at the stars before she shut the door, and retraced her steps down the passage. When Julian left the Marylebone Road that night it was nearly ten o'clock.
But he held the smile until she turned away from the curtain. He dressed mechanically; so many moves this way, so many moves that. The evening breeze came; the bamboo shades on the veranda clicked and rasped; the loose edges of the manuscript curled. To prevent the leaves from blowing about, should a blow develop, he distributed paper weights. Still unconscious of anything he did physically.
Rynch had a fleeting thought of trees, was not aware of more than a mild desire to see what lay in their shade. For the present his own problem held him. That which beckoned was defeated, repulsed by his indifference. While Rynch started at a steady distance to trot towards the east, far away a process akin to a relay clicked into a second set of impulse orders.
"You did quite right, dear." "Two stamps, two sheets of paper and two envelopes, please, miss." He clicked four pence together on the counter. Miss Mills rose slowly from her place, went a yard or two, and took down a large book. Frank watched her gratefully. Then she took a pen and began to make entries in it. "Two stamps, two sheets of paper and two envelopes, please."
The latch clicked, the door opened, and a cloaked figure entered, the shriek of the storm behind. The door closed again. The intruder took a step forward, his hat came off, the cloak was loosed and dropped upon the floor. Guida's premonition had been right: It was Philip. She did not speak.
The telegraph operator had just clicked off the last of half a dozen messages scrawled by the lieutenant orders on San Francisco furnishers for the new outfit demanded by the occasion, etc., but Captain Cutler was still mured within his own quarters, declining to see Mr. Blakely until ready to come to the office.
Then, as the postern clicked and the familiar noises of the city fell on his ear the slapping flat-footed lasses crying "Fried Fish," the sellers of "Hot Oyster Soup," the yelling venders of crout and salad Michael gradually picked up his courage, and we proceeded down the High Street of Thorn to the retired hostel of the White Swan. "Frederika," he cried, as he entered, "are the lads here yet?"
She abruptly clutched the hand that held the keys, so that they clicked together. "Never mind," she flared at me, with a stamp of her foot. "Obey me." "And if I don't?" And now she levelled the pistol at me. She threw back her head and her lips curved. "I 'll shoot," she announced, in a tense tone. "So help me, I 'll shoot."
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