“That,” he said, grimly, with his hand on the doorhandle, “must be your own affair, unless you choose to live at Morningside Park. ‘I’ll wager that militiaman never rode the animal, then. I owe his mother one, and will repay the debt, with interest, to her son. ” He intoned. He turned his eyes and stared at Miss Garvice like one who wakes from a reverie, and then got up and strolled down the laboratory toward his refuge, the preparation-room. It’s not like we’re getting married. Why ain’t you gorn? Seems to me I had ought to arrest you.
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