" "'Ouns!" ejaculated Terence, in alarm, "would you turn snitch on your old pal, Quilt?" "Ay, if he plays a-cross," returned Quilt. That last year in Paris, when Annabel and she had lived in different worlds, had often been a nightmare to her. She staggered to the fireplace and thrust it into the heart of the dying flames. " "May be," returned the man gravely. "Give them what you please. " "And partly what else?" "I shall never tell anybody that. '—'They can't,' says I. She leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes. ‘Go on, Gerald.
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