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She interrupted. The day was so darkly overcast that she had to turn on the small white porcelain lamp that sat upon the makeup crowded vanity. Apparently she was always doomed to weep when she talked to her father. You must know, Sir, when he was a lad, the day after he broke into his master's house in Wych Street, he picked a gentleman's pocket in our church, during sarvice time,—that he did, the heathen. ‘If ever I met such a pair of lunatics!’ ‘Give me that, Hilary,’ Gerald said at once, ignoring his remark and reaching out for the handkerchief. The stranger turned his head at the sound. She patted John's head with her palm, its surface appealingly fuzzy. " "I don't unterstand you," returned Mrs.
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