Kitty Conover ate in the kitchen. First off, this is likely to create the false that there was an ordinary here, a of in the citron. Not so. She ate in the she not yet that chair in the room without and her appetite. She not look at the chair without that glorious, whimsical, mother of hers, who turn into and send bill away with nothing but in their heads.
So long as she out of the room she accept her with philosophy. She knew, as all people know, that there were ghosts, that memory had galleries, and that empty chairs were evocations.
Her days were so active, there were so many nights and concerts, that she did not mind such as she had to alone in the apartment. Persons were in and out of the office all through the day, and many of them entertaining. For only that well-guarded cubby-hole off the noisy city room. Many of them were old friends of her mother. Of they were a little pompous, but this was less than acquired; and she that they were while. She had come to the that successful actors and were the only people in America who spoke English and correctly.
Yes, she ate in the kitchen; but she would have been a fit for the Fragonard. Kitty was naturally an exquisite. Everything about her was dainty, her and her mind. The of and dishes, range and did not Kitty; her presence here in the out of the of and an that was ornamental. Pink and turquoise-blue cap, and and little slippers. No to tell the secret! Kitty was herself for a husband. She that if she the of at marriage it would second nature after marriage. Moreover, she was that it should be news that would a newspaper to intervene. She had all the in the world in her mirror.
She got her this morning, singing. She was happy. She had a door out of monotony; had way to the living. She had opened the book of and she was going through to finis. That there was an of the her or she it.
In all high-strung Irish there is a of the old wife, the foreteller; the gift of prescience; and Kitty this in a mild degree. Something her here, when for a dozen she should have gone elsewhere.
She the coffee, a out of The Mikado, the of which she had lately:
My object all sublime
I shall in time
To make the fit the crime.
The fit the crime.
And make the pent
Unwillingly represent
A of merriment.
Of merriment!
And there you were! To make the fit the crime. Wall in the Bolsheviki, the I.W.W.'s, the Red Socialist, the anarchists—and let them try it for ten years. Those left would be to and sanity. The things, to that they were going there in Russia! What of was it that a to in the of and work? And Cutty sorry for them. Well, as for that, so did Kitty Conover; and she would continue sorry for them so long as they thousands of miles away. But next door!
“Grapefruit, eggs on toast, and coffee; is served!” she cried, gayly, and her with the of healthy youth.
Often the are like the of a camera the plate; they see objects without them. Thus a dozen times Kitty's the range and the on each of the stovepipe, one with an empty and the other with old-fashioned flatirons; but she saw nothing.
She was the events of the night before. She not the that Cutty Stefani Gregor or had of him; and in either case it that Gregor was something more than a valet. And Two-Hawks was not of the Russian peasantry.
By the time she was to for the office the Irish blood in her was and and dancing. She she would do crazy, all day. It was easy to this exuberance. She had out into the dark and touched danger, and a new in a world.
The Great Dramatist had produced a and she had after from the of the lights. Now she had been a speaking part; and she would be stage for a moment or two—dusting the furniture—while the were their make-up. It was not the of Cutty, of Gregor, of Johnny Two-Hawks, of treasure; she had in the great drama.
When she the office she had a hard time of it to settle to the day's work.
“Hustle up that Sunday stuff,” said Burlingame. Kitty laughed. Just as she had pictured it. She hustled.
“I have it!” she cried, a spell of silence.
“What—St. Vitus?” Burlingame, patiently.
“No; the Morgue!”
“What the dickens—!”
But Kitty was no longer there to answer.
In all newspaper offices there is a as the Morgue. Obituaries on ice, as it were. A photograph or an item a great man, a celebrated, or some rogue; from the king to Gyp-the-Blood brand, all and away against the need. So, her the K's, Kitty Karlov. The which she from the box was an excellent of the who had entered her rooms with the policeman. She would be able to this positive to Cutty that afternoon.
When she left the office at four she took the Subway to Forty-second Street. She a taxi from the Knickerbocker and it at the north entrance to the Waldorf, which she entered. She walked through to the south entrance and got into another taxi. She left this at Wanamaker's, and through the aisles. She this hour because, being a woman, she that the press of would be the the day. Karlov's man and the secret-service by Cutty the same mistake—followed Kitty into the dry-goods shop and her as as if she had up in China. At to five she into Elevator Number Four of the which Cutty called his home, very well pleased with herself.
