"But, I half suspect, of your father. ” “Perhaps,” she said, “I am superstitious. See!" she added, tearing the rag from her head,—"I had beautiful black hair once. Sir Rowland waved his hand, and the attendant withdrew. But I don’t care; I haven’t a spark of shame. Montague Hill do not interest me in the least. “Do you play an instrument?” “I play the fiddle sometimes. Her hair once more was arranged with its old simplicity. She threw out a hand to stop herself from cannoning into them and, losing balance, tripped over her own petticoats and fell to the carpeted floor, her hat falling off as she did so.
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