es and fixed  satiric smile; I dared  strain.

    quot;All cats are cynics,quot; h my yellow glare.

    It is t draws him, see.

    ts in a enderest time of dusk. You can scarcely see ures, tains almost  on t up, talls go do comes on. And t, on Sundays, t o Mass, bundled up in black, he company of an aged hag, her keeper, who grumps along grim as a prison dinner.

    secret face?  Puss revealed it?

    Back ables so late, so very late at nigo our emergent surprise t all at once it s ly a-gurgle   fine spirits er and cold rot to ctle lanterns the chill fog as we go ungodly rolling home.

    See, a black barque, like a state funeral; and Puss takes it into o board acking obliquely to e against ern, take offence at suctentions to tle cat? (As it turns out, ttise  as Arabia descends from t just tatic spot. Puss lets rip a roaring purr, rears briefly on s; jig te o see and draer lamp lit be flush: her face.

    And she smiling.

    For a moment, just t moment, you  was May morning.

    quot;Come along! Come! Dont day beast!quot; snaps toots; she sneezes.

    t is, and dark, again.

    It  I alone w smile ole .

    Love.

    Ive sat inscrutably by and  in ty, besides a number of good iful daugry girls come to sell celery and endive on trips ts more. tary unsticoats and if I could, I  sixteen years old. But never t;lovequot;,  of any of transports, until my master saeleone as s  to Mass, and sed up  for him.

    And noo tables no more for l