It can wait a bit longer. "There's Sharples," cried Quilt. A man's laced hat,—whether adopted from the caprice of the moment, or habitually worn, we are unable to state,—cocked knowingly on her head, harmonized with her masculine appearance. She smiled at the sight of him, and thereat his radiation increased. She was sore and overstrung, and it was intolerable to her that he should stand within three yards of her unsuspectingly, with an incalculably vast power over her happiness. I’m ashamed to confess it, but I didn’t want the charge of you—a too close reminder of my own lost babe. "Aren't you afraid?" "Of what?"—serenely.
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