Mind you don't stir till supper's over. The nun on the threshold was of middle age and heavily built, her back uneven from toil and her hands roughened. “You poor little girl!” he cried. “MY DEAR MISS STANLEY,” it began,—“I hope you will forgive my bothering you with a letter, but I have been thinking very much over our conversation at Lady Palsworthy’s, and I feel there are things I want to say to you so much that I cannot wait until we meet again. He only laughed his defiance. ” “For example?” “Your dyed hair. “It’s a way of avoiding explanations.
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