COCKEYED

She was cockeyed on her settee—her face considerably close to the cushioned seat. She righted herself, but she dropped the book.

She was sick and her mother had died of typhoid, her sister of parasitic worms.

This had been one of the few occasions when she had been charming and tactful.

There were bruises on the lady’s face and indications of other injuries upon her delicate structure.

Her library table desk is made of sycamore, painted in the classic manner—the type of thing that seems peculiar.