" "Stand off, Poll," rejoined the woollen-draper; "I don't want to hurt you. She was no longer a confederate in that. Water poured into her eyes, nose, and mouth in a torrent from which she had to turn and wheeze. She met the keen grey eyes of a clean-shaven man, between forty and fifty, quietly dressed in professional attire. A SCENE FROM THE PHOTOPLAY. And turning again, as if the emotions she had churned up kept her on the move, she paced back to the mantel and there stopped, staring at her own reflection in the tarnished mirror.
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