I feel a mixture of beast and uncle. 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. There was now no honest way of warning Taber that the net had been drawn. She saw her life before her robbed of all generous illusions, the wrappered life unwrappered forever, vistas of dull responses, crises of makebelieve, years of exacting mutual disregard in a misty garden of fine sentiments. “You have put all your life in my hands,” he declared. Now, in her old place, she was doing her best thoroughly to enjoy a most indifferent dinner.
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