Mrs. Hill sat up on the pavement and mopped the blood from his cheek. And experience was slow in coming. He was a bad dog; he knew it perfectly; but where there was laughter, there was hope. The recollection of all her unhappiness, the loveless years, the unending loneliness, the injustice of it, rolled up to her lips in verbal lava. Sometimes the moon was totally eclipsed; at others, it shed a wan and ghastly glimmer over the masses rolling in the firmament. ‘You are too shrewd for me, ma’am. But if he speaks—I fear what he may tell.
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