It had evidently seen better days before being relegated to the ministrations of a hackney coachman, one who evidently served the less affluent inhabitants of London. If only for the sake of her argument with her home, she wanted success. He turned, expecting to see his wife. It had her raven locks, her pouting lips. A handy knife, and a good tot of something sharp to clean out the wound. "Whose grave is this?" he inquired of a man who was standing near it. ' That's your signal. Perhaps this was the real turning point: the hour in which the disordered mind began permanently to readjust itself. In another instant, the collision took place.
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