“It may be her salvation. It isn’t such fun as it seems. “MY DEAR FATHER,” she wrote,—“I have been thinking hard about everything since I was sent to this prison. Earles himself stood upon the threshold of his sanctum, the prototype of the smart natty Jew, with black hair, waxed moustache, and a wired flower in his button-hole. ‘We will converse in your own tongue,’ he said in French as he led her away. ’ ‘No, sister, I know that, but—’ ‘You needn’t tell me. With this air in our blood, this sunlight soaking us.
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