“Annabel, I begin to see why you are here. 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. So am I. Jack submitted to this scrutiny with a very bad grace, and vehemently protested his innocence. He was there concealed, waiting her return. He was perched on the very edge of the leather seat of the coach, his threecornered hat twisting nervously in his hands, and from time to time he passed a tongue over dry lips. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts. org/donate Section 5.
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