She attacked me with a carving-knife, and, when I had disarmed her, the jade bit off a couple of fingers from my left hand. She was practicing with them on that very day, and displaced a rather mediocre boy violinist who claimed “to be better at the viola anyway” as first chair. Not fit to be dust on your boots. The door was closed— locked,—and the pair were heard descending the stairs. “You have the ideas. “Through there,” he said, and pointed with the pamphlet he was carrying. As she hoisted her skirts near her waist, she thought ruefully of the last time she had worn such an elaborate gown, sometime near 1910 when petticoats were still considered hip everyday garb. It was Blueskin. “Either I want to shout,” said Mr.
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