Now you see the shop: Boyle and Luckwort: there.' Victor looked.

He threw his coat open, and pulled the waistcoat, and swelled it, ahemming.

'That shop ?' said he.

And presently: 'Fenellan, I'm not superstitious, I think.

Now listen; I declare to you, on the day of our drinking Old Veuve together last--you remember it,--I walked home up this way across the square, and I was about to step into that identical shop, for some household prescription in my pocket, having forgotten Nataly's favourite City chemists Fenbird and Jay, when--I'm stating a fact--I distinctly--I 'm sure of the shop--felt myself plucked back by the elbow; pulled back the kind of pull when you have to put a foot backward to keep your equilibrium.' So does memory inspired by the sensations contribute an additional item for the colouring of history.
He touched the elbow, showed a flitting face of crazed amazement in amusement, and shrugged and half-laughed, dismissing the incident, as being perhaps, if his hearer chose to have it so, a gem of the rubbish tumbled into the dustcart out of a rather exceptional householder's experience.
Fenellan smiled indulgently.