"It only leads to the fencing crib," replied Wild. ” She rolled over on her face, and stuffed her fingers in her ears to shut out the rhythm from her mind. She went to a writing-desk and made some memoranda on a sheet of note-paper, and then remembered that she had no address as yet to which letters could be sent. ‘A little promenade, madame?’ Madame Valade rose from the chintz-covered chair with alacrity and a little rustle of her silken petticoats. There she sought and at last found 107A, one of those heterogeneous piles of offices which occupy the eastern side of the lane.
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