I should think, Anna, that your own sense—er—of propriety would enable you to see this. Had he been trying to stop the grim descent, and had he dimly perceived that perhaps a fine deed would serve as the initial barrier? A drunken idea—a pearl in the midst of a rubbish heap. Wood, and you'll find that I've spoken the truth. The steps, even the pavements, were invaded by little knots of loungers driven outside by the unusual heat of the evening, most of them in evening dress, or what passed for evening dress in Montague Street. It ought never to have begun. I want you.
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