"Absit omen!" he muttered, with a dour glance over shoulder at the retreating figure of his mortal enemy.
"Why," she laughed incredulously, "you're not afraid?"
Forcing a wry grin, he mocked a shudder.
"Some irreverent body walked over the grave of me."
"You're superstitious!"
"I'm Irish," P. Sybarite explained sufficiently.
THE BROOCH
They came to the carriage entrance, where the crush of waiting people had somewhat thinned—not greatly.
Leaving Marian in the angle of the doorway, P. Sybarite pressed out to the booth of the carriage-call apparatus, gave the operator the numbered and perforated cardboard together with a coin, saw the man place it on the machine and shoot home a lever that hissed and spat blue fire; then turned back.