Certain phases of irony always caused him to chuckle audibly. I mean I’m not a good specimen of a woman. She would look up, shake her head, and then go back to her reading or crewelwork. “Annabel,” she said, “you are my sister, or I would bid you take the flowers if you care for them, and leave the room. You notice that I have recently spent ten francs on a box of the best Russian cigarettes, and that there are roses upon my table. He would always be her friend, too. I'm not particular what or where. CHAPTER XXIV Spurlock's novel was a tale of regeneration. At night she would turn it in her fingers like a rosary bead. Many’s the young ’un I’ve seen get hisself into just such a knuckleheaded mess all on account of a pretty wench.
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