"Yes, sir," said the woman.
"Then you shan't. I'm not going to allow it. Catch hold of
this."
The umbrella which he thrust out at her she clutched
automatically, to prevent it falling about her ears. The veto
she received with a wonderment which deepened into stupefaction
when she saw him lift the huge bundle in his arms and stalk away
with it down the street. She turned a scared face at me.
"It's washing," she said.
Pasquale paused, looked round and motioned her onward. She
followed without a word, holding the trim silver mounted
umbrella, and I mechanically brought up the rear. It had all
happened so quickly that I too was confused. The scanty populace
in the rain-filled street stared and gaped. A shambling fellow
in corduroys bawled an obscene jest. Pasquale put down his
bundle.
"Do you want to be sent to hell by lightning?" he asked, with the
evil snarl of the lips.
"No," said the man, sheering off.
"I'm glad," remarked Pasquale, picking up the bundle. And we
resumed our progress.
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