We are not animals. Mr. O'Higgins struck a match and lit his Henry Clay, thereby drawing upon himself the mutual disapproval of the spinsters. In fact he was thinking of other things. “I’m damned if I’ll believe it,” he muttered to himself savagely. On a small shelf near the foot of the bed stood a couple of empty phials, a cracked ewer and basin, a brown jug without a handle, a small tin coffee-pot without a spout, a saucer of rouge, a fragment of looking-glass, and a flask, labelled "Rosa Solis. 3. He did not pocket it, but sat hefting it lightly from hand to hand, watching the girl thoughtfully.
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