manifestation of rebellious artistic tastes on her part. The mordaunt estate stopped at my bench to complain about them one afternoon when martin dyke, having just breakfasted, had strolled over to discuss his favorite topic. She was, at that very moment, knitting her dainty brows over the fifteenth bunch of pink fragrance and deciding regretfully that this thing must come to an end even if she had to call in terry the cop. That lady in number 37, said the mordaunt estate bitterly, aint the lady i thought she was.