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 wrist, but happy. She was looking at what there was to see. A man was painting upon the fence: “Eat Bricklets—They Fill Your Face.”

Violet blushed when she saw William Pry. William jabbed a lady in a black silk raglan in the ribs, kicked a boy in the shin, hit an old gentleman on the left ear and managed to crowd nearer to Violet. They stood for an hour looking at the man paint the letters. Then William’s love could be repressed no longer. He touched her on the arm.

“Come with me,” he said. “I know where there is a bootblack without an Adam’s apple.”

She looked up at him shyly, yet with unmistakable love transfiguring her countenance.

“And you have saved it for me?” she asked, trembling with the first dim ecstasy of a woman beloved.

Together they hurried to the bootblack’s stand. An hour they spent there gazing at the malformed youth.

A window-cleaner fell from the fifth story to the sidewalk beside them. As the ambulance came clanging up William pressed her hand joyously. “Four ribs at least and a compound fracture,” he whispered, swiftly. “You are not sorry that you met me, are you, dearest?”

“Me?” said Violet, returning the pressure. “Sure not. I could stand all day rubbering with you.”