Gosse sagged under the impact, knocking over the card table, and falling to sit, half stunned, the discharged pistol flying from his slackened grasp. The infant’s body, now missing its pulverized head, was still twitching among the blood-soaked ruins of corpses. Her lips were apart, but no breath seemed to issue from them; and, but for a slight—very slight palpitation of the bosom, the vital principle might be supposed to be extinct. She herself, and one other there, recognized the interposition of something akin to tragedy. He's going to ask you to Prom. It was all highly intriguing.
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