Then the farmer came to his door, arrayed in a shirt and a shotgun, and emptied both barrels of the latter at Mr.Warmdollar and his sentry-box--the agriculturist not understanding the case, as sometimes happens to agriculturists, notably in politics.
Following his baptism of dog and fire, Mr.Warmdollar crawled back to town and worked no more.

Mrs.Warmdollar was named scrubwoman, while her disheartened spouse devoted himself to strong drink, as though to color one's nose and fuddle one's wits were the great purposes of existence.
Being eager of gain, Mrs.Warmdollar had sub-rented her parlor floor to the San Reve; and since Mrs.Warmdollar was a lady in whom curiosity had had its day and died, she asked no questions the answers to which might prove embarrassing.
The San Reve, like Mrs.Warmdollar, worked in a department, being a draughtswoman in the Treasury Building, and attached to the staff of the supervising architect.

The place had been granted the San Reve at the request of Senator Hanway, who was urged thereunto by Mr.Harley, to whom Storri explained the San Reve's skill in plates and plans and the propriety of work.
The San Reve's apartments were comfortable with chairs, lounges, and ottomans; a piano occupied one corner, while two or three good pictures hung upon the walls.

In the bow-window was a window-seat piled high with cushions, from which by daylight one might have surveyed the passing show--dull enough in Grant Place.
"Have you no kiss for your Storri, my San Reve ?" cried Storri plaintively, but still sticking to the lightly confident.
The San Reve accepted Storri's gallant attention as though thinking on other things than kisses.

Then she threw aside her hat and wraps, and glanced at herself in the glass.
She was a striking figure, the San Reve, with brick-colored hair and eyes more green than gray.