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“There,” he said, “you don’t treat me fairly, Miss Stanley. You seem to want this chap out of Canton. In the bad light he looked at once military and sentimental and studious, like one of Ouida’s guardsmen revised by Mr. ‘Wait a minute, though. It was empty. He depended upon her, for his medicine, for his drink, for the little amusement it was now permissible to give him. “It’s no sort of good, Ann Veronica, pretending one does believe when one doesn’t. Here's his health likewise. Whisky kills him suddenly; it does not sap him gradually. Somewhere in the world there was a book clerk with a discerning mind; for he had given her the best he had.
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