Sheila had dropped glaring hints that she knew, which Chuck tacitly acknowledged with a lowered gaze. Behind them stalked Blueskin, enveloped in a rough great-coat, called—appropriately enough in this instance,—a wrap-rascal. O'Higgins struck a match and lit his Henry Clay, thereby drawing upon himself the mutual disapproval of the spinsters. “I’d rather go as a chorus-girl,” she said. She did not enter the cabin at once, but paused on the threshold and stared at the silent, recumbent figure in the bunk. Besides, he might hear things. The piece, in three movements, was short enough anyway. “I am sure,” she said, “that you mean to stay until you are turned out.
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