“Dear me! I wonder what I ought to do. The flowers upon the mantel-shelf were withered and drooping—she had gathered them. ‘I knew you would be furious. —Give me the letters, my love," she added aloud, and in her most winning accents; "they're some wicked forgeries. I may tell him, at any rate, that you will see him?” “I shall like to see him,” Anna answered. I don’t classify. “What ought you to do?” He began to produce his knowledge of the world for her benefit, jerkily and allusively, and with a strong, rank flavor of “savoir faire. ” He quickened, “I never slept with Kate Pfister, you know, and when I confronted her about all the pranks that she and her idiot friends had pulled she denied it all. Every one has to make a deal with the world.
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