“If I had three hands,” she said, with a faint smile, “I would give one to each of you. She took up one of her father’s novels and put it down again, fretted up to her own room for some work, sat on her bed and meditated upon the room that she was now really abandoning forever, and returned at length with a stocking to darn. " "Leave you!" echoed the ruffian, with a contemptuous laugh; "—not just yet. Her time and effort was justly rewarded, because the hard cold facts she knew about neighborhood intrigues were better than fictional soap operas.
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