The cold blue light had climbed now
into the sky, which was thick with stars; the snow on the myriad roofs
stretched like a filmy cloud as far as the eye could see. The moving,
shouting crowd grew with every moment mistier.
"Oh, dear! Mr. Burrows," said the little typist, who was not Peroxide.
"Do you think I shall ever be able to get home? We're on the other side
of the river, you know. Do you think the bridges will be up? My mother
will be so terribly anxious."
"Oh, you'll get home all right," answered Burrows cheerfully. "Just wait
until this crowd has gone by. I don't expect there's any fuss down by
the river..."
His words were cut short by some order from one of the fellows below.
Others shouted in response, and the lorries again began to move forward.
"I believe he was shouting to us," said Bohun. "It sounded like 'Get
off' or 'Get away.'"
"Not he!" said Burrows; "they're too busy with their own affairs."
Then things happened quickly. There was a sudden strange silence below;
I saw a quick flame from some fire that had apparently been lit on the
Fontanka Bridge; I heard the same voice call out once more sharply, and
a second later I felt rather than heard a whizz like the swift flight of
a bee past my ear; I was conscious that a bullet had struck the brick
behind me.
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