The grate was full of fluttering ashes of burnt paper, and the easy chair near the fire had evidently been used. ’ ‘Ain’t you in a rage?’ asked the captain. She despises me, I suppose. "Do you think I'm afeard of a beggarly thief-taker and his myrmidons? Not I. Ennison,” she exclaimed, “is that really you?” There was no sign of embarrassment in her manner. She fluttered it with a trembling hand, averting her eyes from his, and he could hear her uneven breath behind it. 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.
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