But Queed's dread of seeing the girl had nothing
to do with what was uppermost in her mind--the _Post's_ treacherous
editorial. Of course, West had long since made that right as he had
promised, as he would have done with no promising. But--ought he to
tell her now, or to wait?... And what would she say when she knew the
whole shameful truth about him--knew that for nearly a year Surface
Senior and Surface Junior, shifty father and hoodwinked son, had been
living fatly on the salvage of her own plundered fortune?
She would have passed him with a bow, but Queed, more awkward than she,
involuntarily halted. The dingy gas-light, which happened to be behind
him, fell full upon her face, and he said at once:--
"How do you do?--not very well, I fear. You look quite used up--not well
at all."
Pride raised a red flag in her cheek. She lifted a great muff to her
lips, and gave a little laugh.
"Thank you. I am quite well."
Continuing to gaze at her, he went ahead with customary directness:
"Then I am afraid you have been taking--the reformatory too hard."
"No, not the reformatory.
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