His hair is oddly streaked with gray —I might say a dishonourable gray. ‘I’m only a poor country wench, child. A hansom stopped a little way off. He ushered them with an amiable flat hand into a minute apartment with a little gas-stove, a silk crimson-covered sofa, and a bright little table, gay with napery and hot-house flowers. A wave of pity went over him—pity for the patient, the girl, and his friend. Her pat answer to all inquiries was, “I let my sister Shari make me over,” while she kept from staring at her own reflection in the shiny shoes past her bare knees.
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