Cowering in a corner upon a heap of straw sat his unfortunate mother, the complete wreck of what she had been. It was long and narrow, a well-lit, wellventilated, quiet gallery of small tables and sinks, pervaded by a thin smell of methylated spirit and of a mitigated and sterilized organic decay. “This girl—she’s really a very charming, frank person—had had her imagination fired, so she told me, by a school performance of Romeo and Juliet. “Umph!” he said, and regarded his letter doubtfully before consigning it to the pillar-box. When you send for me I shall come back. ” She batted his arms and slapped him, angrily twisting from his grasp.
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