Wherein she differed but little from her young sisters. It seemed as if each time her imagination reached out investingly, an invisible lash beat it back. "My chickens are hatched, or, at least, nearly so," replied Shotbolt, with increased merriment. Even in her painting smock and with her disarranged hair, the likeness between the two girls was marvellous. She frowned and gripped her hands about her knees very tightly. Then a ride to London on horseback. This was not exactly what the woollen-draper desired. Even in his fevered hours, so the girl had said, his tongue had not betrayed him. “Unless you have an appointment, which you haven’t,” he said, “you’ll only waste your time here.
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