She’d prefer that I read classic literature, of course, but she only reads paperback romance novels, so she can’t exactly complain. She felt herself getting into a corner. She turned on the lad with her, who was visibly relieved. It made me wake up, and there I lay thinking of you, spending your nights up here all alone, and no one to look after you. “You were really at Moulton House,” she exclaimed penitently. “What a hideous repertoire! If you are in earnest about wanting to earn money, why on earth don’t you accept an engagement here?” “An engagement?” she queried. I can save you, and will. 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.
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