“Did you hear a shot fired about ten minutes ago?”
“A what?”
“A shot.”
“No.”
“My life has been attempted,” said I.
“Where? When? By whom?” cried my uncle, staring at me.
“In your avenue, and by a tall lady in a tight-fitting dress, whom I have strong reasons for suspecting to be your daughter.”
His face relaxed, and he burst out into one of his stunning roars of laughter.
“Tell me what the minx did?” he shouted.
I told him. Again the room resounded to his roar. As there was really nothing in the incident to occasion so much violent hilarity, I assumed that his sense of the ridiculous was aggravated by the pertinacious gravity of my face.