But that possibility had been anticipated. She was posing before the mirror, critically, miserably, defensively, and perhaps bewilderedly. "You can shave him, you know. "The gentleman is a stranger to me, Poll," replied the woollen-draper, with increased embarrassment. Then you may have a bit of a chance. She could still remember herself at age five, staring knives and daggers at the men who came into the small yarn shop, under pretense of business but really just to leer. Her hair once more was arranged with its old simplicity. Behind the Avenue was a little hill, and an iron-fenced path went over the crest of this to a stile under an elm-tree, and forked there, with one branch going back into the Avenue again. "Can you pull him through?" was the anxious question.
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