So perfect was the illusion, that he could almost fancy he heard the solemn voice of the ordinary warning him that his race was nearly run, and imploring him to prepare for eternity. “When did you get home last night, Lucy?” Cathy interrogated through a yawn. The steps, even the pavements, were invaded by little knots of loungers driven outside by the unusual heat of the evening, most of them in evening dress, or what passed for evening dress in Montague Street. “Ugh!” she said. I'm about to ring for supper. I meant mischief. One day it was gone.
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