‘—without telling her why,’ he finished, ignoring the interjection. He thrust out a rhetorical hand. There is turmoil, shouts, cries, jostlings, milling congestions that suddenly break and flow in opposite directions. Her cheeks burned for a moment or two when she reached the street, although she held her head upright and walked blithely, even humming to herself fragments of an old French song. “I’m next, Mr. 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. You—It’s jolly of you to confide in me.
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