"I'm going
back to Mother McNeil's," she said, presently, and the large and
half-worn rubbers which she had tied on over her shoes were looked at
speculatively. "The Damanarkist is going to take me. As soon as Miss
Frances tells me Mr. Van's name I'll telephone him to come quick, but
I won't tell her that. She might go away again. In that slushy book I
read the girl ought to have been shook. She was dying dead in love
with her sweetheart and treated him like he was a poodle-dog. Miss
Frances wouldn't do that, but I don't know what she might do, and I'm
not going to tell her any more than I can help. I want her to think it
just happened. Good-by, and go to sleep if you want to, but don't
smoke, please. You might drop the sparks on your coat. Good-by."
With a swift kiss she was gone and, meeting the Damanarkist, who was
waiting outside the door, they went down the three flights of steps
and out into the street. The wind was biting, and, turning up the
collar of her coat, Carmencita put her hands in her pockets and made
effort to walk rapidly through the thick snow into which her feet sank
with each step.
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