It could not go on much longer, her luck. "It is not too late to repair the wrong I have done my nephew," cried Trenchard. ” She grinned. But such is the perversity of the human that frequently thereafter he purposely crooked the part in his hair, to give her the excuse to fetch the comb. Every care had been taken of it, as well as of himself, by the humane inmates of the house in which he had sought shelter. There was a gentle rustling of skirts. The fact that it was her trusted friend making illicit love to her remained, in spite of all her effort, an insignificant thing in her mind.
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