Chapter XXVIII THE HISSING OF “ALCIDE” There was a strange and ominous murmur of voices, a shuffling of feet in the gallery, a silence, which was like the silence before a storm. “That’s not. On the next morning—Sunday—the day on which he expected his mother's funeral to take place, he set out along the Harrow Road. “I have heard of you, of course,” Anna answered hesitatingly, “but——” “You cannot imagine what I have come to see you about. But between us, we'll have him writing books some day. He was not, it seemed, the proper stipendiary at all, and there had been some demur to his jurisdiction that had ruffled him. Before Jonathan followed he turned to face his assailants. He allowed his voice to drip with sympathy. “It is a hateful story. "And now to see the end of it," said Jonathan, shortly afterwards passing through the window.
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