It is the old story of a Westerner meddling with an Eastern custom. His clothes had evidently seen some service, and were plentifully begrimed with the dust of the workshop. ‘I am nine-and-twenty,’ he answered. Wood fancied he heard the exulting laugh of Jonathan Wild. Warm life was behind that always, even if it slept. Occasionally he relit his pipe. 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.
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