The ticket line filtered slowly into the glass doors, growing louder and more boisterous by the minute. He folded the garments carefully and replaced them on the chair. He carried a cane and a silk hat with a mourning-band in one gray-gloved hand; his frock-coat and trousers were admirable; his handsome face, his black mustache, his prominent brow conveyed an eager solicitude. What does it matter? I am not a pauper, Annabel. I believe you’ve crushed a gland or something. You haven’t had it on your mind all this time?” “I have rather. The man who staggers, whose face is flushed, whose attitude is either noisily friendly or truculent, has some chance; liquor bends him eventually.
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