My quarters were one morning suddenly invaded by a young Romany girl, who advanced towards me, after closely scanning me, singing a gipsy song: The Romany chi And the Romany chal Shall jaw tasaulor To drab the bawlor, And dook the gry Of the farming rye.

After several addresses, a slight lady, with white cap and drab Quaker dress, came forward.

As drab a shade colored Stella Fyfe's daily outlook.

Was it possible life could be as dull and drab a thing as it seemed to her.