"It is she beyond a doubt," she had announced.
"What other could it be?" the man had answered, pretty lazily.
"And that being so--"
Said the woman--I am trying to tell this in correct fashion--"Why are
you so dull?--who, when the boat used to call, would snatch up the
glasses and be no company for anyone until you had counted everything
she discharged."
Farrell--oh! by the way it's about time I told you that the man was
Farrell--Farrell looked at the woman. Farrell said:
No, the devil! I can't tell it the professional way, after all.
There's the woman. Well, the woman was young, and fair to see, dark,
well-bred, with a tinge of lemon, and descended pretty straight from
the Incas--"instead of which" she preferred to call herself Mrs.
M'Kay or M'Kie, having been caught and married in an unguarded moment
by someone who had arrived in San Ramon to push a new brand of whisky
and stayed to push it the wrong way. Since M'Kie's death--or
M'Kay's--whichever it was--new-comers had to choose between
Engelbaum's, on the summit, and the lady, an heiress in a small way,
who played the guitar, half-way down the hill, but frowned on the
drinking-habit.
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