It was six or seven miles to Briar, and he took it at an easy sort of trot, smoking a pipe. I told him about the fog—there was still something of a mist, even now, even there—and the slow trains.
He said, ''That''s London. Known for its fogs, ain''t it? Been much down to the country before?''
''Not much,'' I said.
''Been maiding in the city, have you? Good place, your last one?'' ''Pretty good,'' I said.
''Rum way of speaking you''ve got, for a lady''s maid,'' he said then. ''Been to France ever?''
I took a second, smoothing the blanket out over my lap. ''Once or twice,'' I said.
''Short kind of chaps, the French chaps, I expect? In the leg, I mean.''~思~兔~在~線~閱~讀~
Now, I only knew one Frenchman—a housebreaker, they called him Jack the German, I don''t know why. He was tall enough; but I said, to please William Inker, ''Shortish, I suppose.'' ''I expect so,'' he said.
The road was perfectly quiet and perfectly dark, and I imagined the sound of the horse, and the wheels, and our voices, carrying far across the fields. Then I heard, from rather near, the slow tolling of a bell—a very mournful sound, it seemed to me at that moment, not like the cheerful bells of London. It tolled nine times.