She felt her forehead repeatedly break out in a light sweat. “You cannot seriously believe,” he said, “that at the present moment I care a snap of the fingers whether I have any dinner or not. One of these, a lady, evidently a confirmed invalid, and attired in deep mourning, reclined upon a sort of couch, or easy chair, set on wheels, with her head supported by cushions, and her feet resting upon a velvet footstool. She knew the significance: the red corpuscle was being burnt out by the fires of alcohol. And the grotesquest fact was that she did not so much loathe, as experience with a quite critical condemnation this strange sensation of being kissed. The idea of this sudden reluctance was elusive; the fact was evident but not the reason for it.
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