“Sure, are you sure you’re okay?” He exited off the highway onto a quiet road and pulled over. His figure was uncommonly slim even for his age, which could not be more than thirteen; and the looseness of his garb made him appear thinner than he was in reality. He carried a cane and a silk hat with a mourning-band in one gray-gloved hand; his frock-coat and trousers were admirable; his handsome face, his black mustache, his prominent brow conveyed an eager solicitude. Supper was quickly served; the oldest bottle of wine was brought from the cellar; the strongest barrel of ale was tapped; but not one of the party could eat or drink—their hearts were too full. She interrupted. “The doctor has asked me to give them my reasons—for shooting myself. ‘It did not seem to me that it was so. I said, ‘It is no use your telling me about this walk and pretend I’ve been told about the ball, because you haven’t. It seems only yesterday that she was running down the Avenue, all hair and legs. ” She shook her head.
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