The Disguise. “I don’t think you see,” she replied, with tears on her cheeks, and her brows knitting, “how it shames and, ah!—disgraces me—AH TISHU!” She put down the tray with a concussion on her toilet-table. Amongst the ring-leaders was Blueskin, whose swarthy features and athletic figure were easily distinguished. He was there concealed, waiting her return. The other individual, who was a little in advance, was concealed from the stranger's view. “It is a great art,” she said in broken English. Wrap yourself in my cloak, and keep it. In the adjacent apartment Ann Veronica found a middle-aged woman with a tired face under the tired hat she wore, sitting at a desk opening letters while a dusky, untidy girl of eight-or nine-and-twenty hammered industriously at a typewriter.
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