“You may call anytime. Wood required little pressing. Puffy blue curtains dressed every oakstained window. And he hazarded a wink at the poet over the paper on which he was sketching. Soldiers were stationed at different points of the street to keep off the mob, and others were riding backwards and forwards to maintain an open space for the passage of the procession. “No Christmas dinner,” she said, “or anything nice! One doesn’t even know what you are doing. He wanted to know what the joke against him was—if any. Where can we sit down and talk?” He led her across the room towards a window recess, in which a tall, fair young man was seated with an evening paper in his hand. A young man was playing the banjo. What'syour-name!" "Charcam," replied the attendant, bowing.
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