A home MAY be a sort of cage, but still—it’s a home. ’ The lady hesitated a moment, her eyes seeming to measure the distance between where he stood and the door. Old Kesterton, choleric-looking individual nearly opposite, will curse the cooking till he’s black in the face, but he never misses a dinner. She flung herself back into the bare little room, cold, empty, comfortless. His face, as he looked down where his hand sought for a weapon concealed in her petticoat, was so close that she could see only the line of his firm jaw, the drag of his powdered hair that drew it into the military pigtail, and the black ribbon that adorned it.
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