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She went down, feeling rather than seeing the way. “Well, I do. ‘Come, mademoiselle, it is of no use to conceal anything from me, you know. 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. A child—as innocent as a child! Nothing about life; bemused by the fairy stories you writers call novels! I don't know what you have done; I don't care. "I am, Charcoal. “I have given it up,” she answered.
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