A man's laced hat,—whether adopted from the caprice of the moment, or habitually worn, we are unable to state,—cocked knowingly on her head, harmonized with her masculine appearance. “We should get out of here. "My chickens are hatched, or, at least, nearly so," replied Shotbolt, with increased merriment. Guiltily, she felt very little for him, and yet she wondered what he would be like.
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