She could "play the game" so perfectly, he grasped, because she had been obliged either to play it or go under ever since she had been big enough to read the cards in her hand.

To be "a good sport" was perhaps the best lesson that the world had yet taught her.

Though she could not be, he decided, more than eighteen, she had acquired already the gay bravado of the experienced gambler with life.
"Let me help you," he said eagerly, "I am sure that I can carry you, you are so small.

If you will only let me throw away this confounded bird, I can manage it easily." "No, give it to me.

It would die of cold if we left it." She stretched out her hand, and in silence he gave her the wounded pigeon.