F. Her concluding paragraph was, on the whole, perhaps, hardly starchy enough. "He is," replied a portly personage, arrayed in a gorgeous yellow brocade dressing-gown, lined with cherry-coloured satin, and having a crimson velvet cap, surmounted by a gold tassel, on his head. “Why—it’s—it’s you!” Amazement seemed to dry up the torrents of his speech. When he begins to notice things, I want you to trap his interest, to amuse him, keep his thoughts from reverting to his misfortunes. He’s out in Phoenix last I heard. Look in the small hide-bound book that he keeps in his boot. Spurlock, filled with self-mockery, sat in a chair on the west veranda. "She considers her future blasted beyond hope.
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