The well-trussed game is at last removed from the web and fastened on behind with a thread.

The Spider then marches in front and the load is trundled across the web and hoisted to the resting-floor, which is both an inspection-post and a dining-hall.

When the Spider is of a species that shuns the light and possesses a telegraph-line, she mounts to her daytime hiding-place along this line, with the game bumping against her heels.
While she is refreshing herself, let us enquire into the effects of the little bite previously administered to the silk-swathed captive.

Does the Spider kill the patient with a view to avoiding unseasonable jerks, protests so disagreeable at dinner-time?
Several reasons make me doubt it.

In the first place, the attack is so much veiled as to have all the appearance of a mere kiss.