“What a beautiful mare’s nest!” she exclaimed. But, here they are. Pramlay lived for amenities and the mellowed surfaces of things. She did not want particularly to know what had caused his agony, what had driven him back to the old coat. ‘—without telling her why,’ he finished, ignoring the interjection. Perhaps you’ve heard—?’ Well, you know, he had. Feigning an air of casualness, Lucy asked the obvious. "Rowland," she said, in a faint voice, "I have not many minutes to live. Gin is the poor man's friend,—his sole set-off against the rich man's luxury.
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