Standing on tiptoe, on a joint-stool, placed upon the bench, with his back to the door, and a clasp-knife in his hand, this youngster, instead of executing his appointed task, was occupied in carving his name upon a beam, overhead. The young lady with whom I was dining last night was Miss Anna Pellissier. The eyes left him, searching beside the chair for her cane. Only the next of kin. Very intelligent, by the looks of the books she was carrying. I said I’d do anything. Yet he was in a state of hopeless bewilderment.
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