She began to draw on her gloves thoughtfully. A dry cough's the trumpeter of death. "So it appears," replied Marvel. "The door!—the door!—death!" he added, as he tried the handle, "it is locked—and I am unarmed. He did not pocket it, but sat hefting it lightly from hand to hand, watching the girl thoughtfully. "It was silly. " "And that's true," rejoined Mrs. “Do you think it is fair of you to persecute me just now?” “It is not persecution, Anna,” he answered gently. “A glass slipped from the table,” he explained. The young man's imagination suddenly pictured the man as a rock, loosed from its ancient bed, crumbling as it fell. The spinsters had purchased one grass-linen tablecloth; the girl and the young man had purchased nothing. You must think it over. She pulled the door so that it was not quite to, and held out her hand, palm up. “I think that I will leave this letter for him,” she said.
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