" "On my soul, Thames, you wrong me!" replied Jack, passionately. Her head rose. Just dreamed—and ran away even from my dreams. All along the wooden benches before it sat a profusion of soldiery, a collection of barbers in attendance, busily employed in replaiting and powdering their hair ready for a military review scheduled for this afternoon. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. And not a worthy tome in sight. After all, it came to him suddenly as a harsh discovery that she might be in a sense regarded as grownup. Quilt was not long in following his example.
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