Ann Veronica was lying on her bed in a darkling room staring at the ceiling. ‘Ain’t enough as my bed is took, my sheets all bloodied, and my gin took for to waste on that fellow’s wound. Imagine her, putting herself to all this delay and inconvenience for a young wastrel she did not know and who, the moment he got on his feet, would doubtless pass out of her life without so much as Thank you! And it was ten to one that she would not comprehend the ingratitude. She isn't used to cities. He was as hard as a rock. Spurlock lay with his head on his arms, asleep. For a long time he stared at the empty doorway. You—It’s jolly of you to confide in me.
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