She sat there, a mark for boulevarders, the unconscious object of numberless wondering glances. . It opened and a nun’s head popped out. “I won’t have you quarrelling and crying in the Avenue,” he said. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. Brendon made a quick movement forward. In his way he was critical. Yet I think that he will do it. Amid this varied throng,—varied in appearance, but alike in character,—one object alone, we have said, rivetted Mrs.
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