"Fire!—murder—thieves!—I've got one of 'em!" "Come along," cried Jack. They all stay!” “And you yourself?” Brendon laughed. If it came at all, it was as fleeting as the girl's smile. Why should she trouble herself over that young fool, who was nothing to her; who, when he eventually sobered up, would not be able to recognize her, or if he did, as something phantasmagorical? Perhaps he should not apply the term "fool"; "unfortunate" might be the more accurate application. I wish she wouldn’t look like that at us over her glasses.
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