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The Young Girl “Come along. Don’t talk so much. And your bag’s open; you’ll be losing all your money again.”

“I’m sorry, darling,” said Mrs. Raddick.

“Oh, do come in! I want to make money,” said the impatient voice. “It’s all jolly well for you—but I’m broke!”

“Here—take fifty francs, darling, take a hundred!” I saw Mrs. Raddick pressing notes into her hand as they passed through the swing doors.

Hennie and I stood on the steps a minute, watching the people. He had a very broad, delighted smile.

“I say,” he cried, “there’s an English bulldog. Are they allowed to take dogs in there?”

“No, they’re not.”

“He’s a ripping chap, isn’t he? I wish I had one. They’re such fun. They frighten people so, and they’re never fierce with their —the people they belong to.” Suddenly he squeezed my arm. “I say, do look at that old woman. Who is she? Why does she look like that? Is she a gambler?”

The ancient, withered creature, wearing a green satin dress, a black velvet cloak and a white hat with purple feathers, jerked slowly, slowly up the steps as though she were being drawn upon wires. She stared in front of her, she was laughing and nodding and cackling to 144