The letter began: “MY DEAREST GIRL,—I cannot let you do this foolish thing—” She crumpled notes and letter together in her hand, and then with a passionate gesture flung them into the fire. Raven locks fell to her shoulders from under the feathered beaver hat, and curled away down her back. ‘And then you will be obliged to remain in France,’ she pointed out. . "Is this a season to speak on such a subject?" "Perhaps not," rejoined the woollen-draper; "but the uncontrollable violence of my passion must plead my excuse. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. ‘You’re the most troublesome wretch I’ve ever encountered,’ he told her bitterly.
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