She could have traded it for gold nuggets and lived like a queen for a few weeks, but she did not. Miss Klegg raised the question of women’s suffrage, and he set himself to provoke a duel between her and Miss Garvice. Until he felt a sharpness digging into his coat at the point of his heart. She produced from the depths of her pride the ugly investigatory note of the modern district visitor. He had a handsome, jolly-looking face; stood six feet two in his stockings; and measured more than a cloth-yard shaft across the shoulders—athletic proportions derived from his father the dragoon. I don’t quite know why. Mark you, she wasn’t the only one. “I will be off,” she declared.
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