No one but she could carry off such rigorous simplicity in the matter of dress so well: black skirt, black Russian blouse, tiny black bonnet and black veil, white kids with black stitching.

Simplicity itself.

Yet the style of her, as Condy Rivers told himself, flew up and hit you in the face; and her figure--was there anything more perfect?
and the soft pretty effect of her yellow hair seen through the veil--could anything be more fetching?
and her smart carriage and the fling of her fine broad shoulders, and--no, it was no use; Condy had to run down to speak to her.
"Come, come!" she said as he pretended to jostle against her on the curbstone without noticing her; "you had best go to work.

Loafing at ten o'clock on the street corners--the idea!" "It IS not--it can not be--and yet it is--it is SHE," he burlesqued; "and after all these years!" Then in his natural voice: "Hello T.B." "Hello, C.R." "Where are you going ?' "Home.

I've just run down for half an hour to have the head of my banjo tightened." "If I put you on the car, will you expect me to pay your car-fare ?" "Condy Rivers, I've long since got over the idea of ever expecting you to have any change concealed about your person." "Huh! no, it all goes for theatre tickets, and flowers, and boxes of candy for a certain girl I know.