A man's laced hat,—whether adopted from the caprice of the moment, or habitually worn, we are unable to state,—cocked knowingly on her head, harmonized with her masculine appearance. So, at least, thought one of two persons who were seated together in a small back-parlour of the house at Dollis Hill. ‘Moreover, no one will believe any more that Yolande is me when they see this. At the back of her mind, dim and yet disconcerting, was the perception that she herself did not know what she wanted. Jackson’s. "Farewell!" cried Jack, embracing them.
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