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I clenched my teeth. "I am nineteen, madam."

No, I barely remembered the rider had generously moved aside to let me go by. In pure sourness at the poverty of my dress and the perfection of his, I had avoided looking at him higher than his hundred-dollar boots. My feet were in uncolored cowhide, except the toes.

"Yes, a beautiful story is a thing Ned Ferry loves with a positive passion."

"I tell her as a friend," he said, "she'll get one into Fortress Monroe yet!"

Yet great is precept. Precept is a well. Up from its far depths by slow, humble, constant process you may draw, in a slender silver thread, and store for sudden use, the pure waters of character.

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