230 Rhea sprang, teeth flashing. “You must come home to him at once,” said Miss Stanley. There is not a soul in the inn but ourselves. ” “Where?” He asked. Hitherto she had seen it chiefly in pictures and other works of art, incidentally, and as a thing taken out of life. ‘Ah, the tragedy. Without her, it was lonely. There were two of them. A corner could hold the promise of a shelf of dainty crystals, volcanic ices of rainbow colors, or figurines of saints sculpted from horn and bone reenacting their martyrdoms on delicate miniature wooden stages. "What is a sing-song girl?" she asked.
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