Gay, by his strokes of pleasantry, whether in his writings or conversation, never lost a friend. "This is strange," said Jack, under his breath. Indeed, he told me nothing at all. On this side was a razor with which a son had murdered his father; the blade notched, the haft crusted with blood: on that, a bar of iron, bent, and partly broken, with which a husband had beaten out his wife's brains. His wife's portrait had been removed from the walls, and the place it had occupied was only to be known by the cord by which it had been suspended. Miss Ellicot, who sang ballads, and liked Brendon to turn over the pages for her, tossed her head. "Do not endanger yourself on my account," rejoined his mother.
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