She spoke with an entirely false note of cheerful offhandedness. About the Abbey and Abingdon Street stood the outer pickets and detachments of the police, their attention all directed westward to where the women in Caxton Hall, Westminster, hummed like an angry hive. "Close the doors below! Loose the dogs! Curses! they don't hear me! I'll ring the alarm-bell. Just as they reached the eastern outlet of the churchyard— where the tall elms cast a pleasant shade over the rustic graves—a momentary stoppage took place. Anna took up the pen, and signed, after a moment’s hesitation, A.
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