Edgeworth Bess wore a scarlet tabby negligée,—a sort of undress, or sack, then much in vogue,—which suited her to admiration, and upon her head had what was called a fly-cap, with richly-laced lappets. She asked the inevitable question, the one she knew Michelle was waiting to field like a quarterback anticipating the pass. You’re dogmatic. Every one turned to her in astonishment. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts.
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