He leaned back in a low chair, and watched her graceful movements, the play of her white hands as she bent over some wonderful machine. He had died before they married, and when her brother became a widower she had come to his assistance and taken over much of the care of his youngest daughter. "What is it?" "The night," she answered. " The detective ruefully inspected the scarlet band on his perfecto. Nothing but the publicity of the place and the recollection of that terrible constituency kept him from attempting some perfectly respectful but unmistakable evidence of his sympathy. “You might at least,” she murmured, “have invented a more romantic reason. She helped him take it off. At last some anodyne formed itself from these exercises, and, with eyelashes wet with such feeble tears as only three-o’clock-in-the-morning pathos can distil, she fell asleep. Then he sat down and filled his pipe slowly and thoughtfully. They are not bad girls, but the average tourist has that misconception of them. “There is no—Good God!” he exclaimed.
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