“It makes me feel,” he said, “that nothing is impossible—to have you here beside me. Don’t touch the handle, Annabel! Curse the thing, you’ve jammed it now. She had never had a pet, never had a real doll. In the heart of the jungle the dog had his private muck baths. No blowzy barmaids for him to-day: an American bar-keep to whom he could tell his troubles and receive the proper meed of sympathy. We have seen great and sober-minded men come to this unholy city, and become degenerates. He took her there on the cold, dirty floor, his nails digging into her back, his teeth sinking into her breasts. No! I do not even know that he cares for me. The new and the old cancelled out; his daughters became quasi-independent dependents—which is absurd. And neither had any of that theatricality which demands gestures and facial expression.
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