She sat down by the paperrack with a general feeling of resemblance to Vivie Warren, and looked through the Morning Post and Standard and Telegraph, and afterward the half-penny sheets. You mustn’t go clawing after a man that doesn’t belong to you—that isn’t even interested in you. I don’t see how they can be. . She had learned this art in skirts, and knew well how not to be disadvantaged. I’m going up to London with the Widgetts to that ball. I’d only get a pack of lies in reply. She hesitated, and for a moment thought of omitting her second verse altogether. “I don’t know why. . ’ The smile vanished.
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