"Bravo, Poll!" cried Jack, who having again pinioned Shotbolt, was now tracing a few hasty lines on a sheet of paper. “You were going to answer it?” “Certainly not!” she said deliberately. “Tell your sister she was right to shoot, quite right. Notwithstanding the heat of the season,—which was not, however, found particularly inconvenient in this subterranean region,—a large heaped-up fire blazed ruddily in one corner, and lighted up a circle of as villanous countenances as ever flame shone upon. Shari proceeded to paint, brush, dust, slather, and blot Lucy’s face with makeup. “If only I could afford another!” she thought regretfully.
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