"Insult you! not I;" returned Figg. “His dress for no man lays a snare; A man scores always, everywhere. ’ ‘You see, I am of them,’ she said seriously, ‘but not with them—yet. Anna was still holding her cigarette between her fingers. The odour of kerosene permeated the bungalow; but Ruth mitigated the nuisance to some extent by burning native punk in brass jars. What was the old tabby at? Unaccountably embarrassed, he cleared his throat. Glancing towards him she saw that a shadow had fallen upon his face. It goes to my heart to disappoint you, but this thing must not be. Where the robber may cheer His spirit with beer, And drown in a sea of good liquor all fear! For nothing the transit to Tyburn beguiles So well as a draught from the Bowl of Saint Giles! III.
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