“Your friend, “DAVID COURTLAW. There were one or two bitter moments in his life when he had been made to feel that gentility laid on with a brush may sometimes crack and show weak places—that deportment and breeding are after all things apart. She had neither the semi-boisterousness of the average American girl nor the chilling insolence of the English. Her two sticks were bare and brown, her snugged canvas drab, her brasses dull, her anchor mottled with rust. It was as if she had come upon the beautiful marble façade of a fairy palace, was invited to enter, and behind the door—nothing.
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