CHAPTER II.
THE ADVENTURE OF THE PEANIVOROUS RIT
ANGELA was now only sixteen. But what does that matter, when one is young! She held a responsible position in a Swedish match factory. She it was who, when the matches were all finished, dipped the tips in water to make sure they would not light.
Would I might describe her sloe-black, fast-black hair, her high-brow eyebrows, her nice cool high-school eyes whose pupils were always playing truant whenever she winked. But I see you are not listening. You want me to resume the offensive, with a capital offense.
Well then, although Angie was as happy as a fried egg, her friend Conscience had begun to tell her, “You’re another!”
For the Soul, beloved brethren, hath also its traffic cops, warning us at all life’s crossroads, “GO” or “STOP.” But somehow, whenever Angie’s conscience showed green she was apt to see red.
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