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. “Your father is dead too, I believe,” he continued, “and your mother. You square the G. You'll live to hate chicken; and the man in you will rise up and demand strong drink. The tree-lined streets were silent except for the sporadic revving of glass packs down Church Avenue. Then he released her hand, and sat back a little, appearing to concentrate his thoughts on her face. “I think that you are very dense. It would be protective; it would with age turn to silver unnoticeably.
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