The gallant woollen-draper was now in his thirty-sixth year. No, I don't, either; because——" "Well, Winny?" "I don't know what I was going to say," she added, in some confusion; "only I'm sorry you were born a gentleman. ’ The couple on the sofa stared at her blankly. She wondered if he was already tired of her, if he would rudely push her away as one would a prostitute. It was still too dark for reading, but she could see well enough to note the number of the last page—fifty-six. “When did you get home last night, Lucy?” Cathy interrogated through a yawn.
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