“I should imagine,” he said, shaking out a copy of The Times, “that it is your brain which is addled. “I’m sorry! Mary! Are you hurt?” “No. Strangers look in and long, and neighbours are moved to envy. Wood. The wastrel, the ne'er-do-well, who went mostly nobly to a fine end. ‘Left to yourself, my girl, you may not have any affairs. "My little fancy man's quite as fond of me as of you, Bess. ‘Ah, yes? To what do I pretend?’ ‘That,’ Gerald said regretfully, ‘I have not yet been able to fathom.
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