Explore "The Living Mummy" by Ambrose Pratt on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
We ate heartily, the pair of us, that evening. The effect on me was comforting and humanising. I felt well disposed to my fellow man -- and woman, and inclined to sanguine expectations. Miss Ottley, however, was, as usual, impenetrable. She belonged of right to the age of iron. A female anachronism. To cheer her I suggested a game of chess. She consented, and mated me in fourteen moves. We played again, and once more she beat me. My outspoken admiration of her skill -- I rather fancy my own play at chess -- left her perfectly imperturbable. In the third game she predicted my defeat at the eleventh move on making her own fourth. I did my best, but her prophecy was fulfilled. "Enough!" said I, and retiring to the door way, I lighted a cigarette.
"Hassan Ali, our dragoman, should be here to-morrow," she presently remarked, "with troops."