It was difficult to get right. A man's laced hat,—whether adopted from the caprice of the moment, or habitually worn, we are unable to state,—cocked knowingly on her head, harmonized with her masculine appearance. “I do not even know who you are. ‘She knows them. As she danced there was in her ears the faded echo of wooden tom-toms. She came to me in a dream. ‘How the deuce did she get out without me seeing her?’ ‘Took advantage of the distraction, cunning little devil,’ Gerald snapped, racing down the corridor.
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