She entered the front hall, formerly magnificent, now faded and dusty, the old wood table waiting for guests who would never come. Over an old crazy bedstead was thrown a squalid, patchwork counterpane; and upon the counterpane lay a black hood and scarf, a pair of bodice of the cumbrous form in vogue at the beginning of the last century, and some other articles of female attire. Some of the delicate colour which the afternoon walk had brought into her cheeks had already returned. “I’m next, Mr. Crocodile Tears. ” She smiled at him cheerfully. Basically a kindly man but made cynical and derisive by sordid contacts, O'Higgins had almost forgotten that there was such a thing as unselfishness. And if sometimes I grow heady—and it's in the blood— remind me of this day when you took me out of hell—a thief.
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