“No, not the box sort, Hazel; just the common kind,” she added.
The girl laid several qualities before her and soon Phoebe recognized the kind she was looking for. She bought a few sheets and Hazel began to wrap them up.
“Have you heard much about—about Toby Clark’s case—lately?” the girl asked in a hesitating way.
“No,” replied Phoebe.
“It’s pretty black against him, isn’t it?” continued Hazel anxiously.
“It looks black, just now,” admitted Phoebe.
“I—I’m sorry for Toby,” said Hazel, with a sigh. “We—we’re all—very fond of him.”
Phoebe bristled with indignation.
“Your sweetheart, Dave Hunter, doesn’t seem very fond of him,” she retorted. “He takes every opportunity to denounce Toby and blacken his character.”
Hazel shrank back as if frightened by such vehemence. She bowed her head over the parcel she was tying, but Phoebe could see that her pale skin had flushed red.