He seemed inexorable, and inscrutable as fate itself. “I wouldn’t. I’m in a mess—a nasty mess! a filthy mess! Oh, no end of a mess! “Do you hear, Ann Veronica?—you’re in a nasty, filthy, unforgivable mess! “Haven’t I just made a silly mess of things? “Forty pounds! I haven’t got twenty!” She got up, stamped with her foot, and then, suddenly remembering the lodger below, sat down and wrenched off her boots. You care for me a little, I know. But such was the violence of his grief,—such the compunction he exhibited, that all but one looked on with an eye of compassion.
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