"Harkye, Sir," rejoined Darrell; "one word before I move. Don't you hear how you've made it cry?" "Throttle the kid!" rejoined Blueskin, fiercely. The more she disentangled the lines of her situation the deeper grew her self-disgust. She spent a very disagreeable afternoon and evening—it was raining fast outside, and she had very unwisely left her soundest pair of boots in the boothole of her father’s house in Morningside Park—thinking over the economic situation and planning a course of action. A new restlessness seemed to have stolen in upon her.
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