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"What...!" he cried, as though some one had struck him. A single candle flickered on the table; his lips were drawn tight across his teeth; his fingers clutched the table-lid convulsively, and he leant across in the direction of his wife. "What...!" he exclaimed again. "They've killed un," repeated the wife, the candle-light reflected in her staring eyes.
The next evening, when we were quietly sitting in our own room, Euphemia remarked that she did not wish to have anything to do with French flats. "They seem to be very convenient," I said. "Oh yes, convenient enough, but I don't like them. I would hate to live where everything let down like a table-lid, or else turned with a crank.
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