‘Alors, pig!’ she cried and lunged in quarte. She was sore with the perplexities of her preposterous position. Her companion was a portly handsome man, also dressed in a full suit of the deepest mourning, with the finest of lace at his bosom and wrists, and a sword in a black sheath by his side. His face, as he looked down where his hand sought for a weapon concealed in her petticoat, was so close that she could see only the line of his firm jaw, the drag of his powdered hair that drew it into the military pigtail, and the black ribbon that adorned it. To have written a short story in a week was rather a remarkable feat. The thought of the picture but added to her despondency. Very glad.
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