“And yet you still live, Butterfly. It was the first day you kissed me, under the willows, coming into Veraz. Loneliness. “There are no males at men to stare; A man scores always, everywhere. I should lose every scrap of independence—even my self-respect. Who’s for a rubber of whist?” Ennison made so many mistakes that he was glad to cut out early in the evening. Boys, at the time of which we write, were attired like men of their own day, or certain charity-children of ours; and the stripling in question was dressed in black plush breeches, and a gray drugget waistcoat, with immoderately long pockets, both of which were evidently the cast-off clothes of some one considerably his senior. ‘Yes, but quite my own fault.
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