” “Oh, I’m not trying to help it,” said Ann Veronica. "When a man reaches the lowest scale through drink, we call him a beachcomber. Don’t try. " O'Higgins grinned. Remember, in your story—look at it, scattered everywhere!—that line? We arrive at true happiness only through labyrinths of misery. “Why did you ever let me love you? Why did you ever let me peep through the gates of Paradise? Oh! my God! I don’t begin to feel and realize this yet. The inner apartment was rather gracefully furnished with a thick, fine Turkish carpet, a good brass fender, a fine old bureau, and on the walls were engravings of two young girls’ heads by Greuze, and of some modern picture of boys bathing in a sunlit pool. Her body rose up to meet his in a cat-like stretch and she smiled. “You be off, missie,” said the fatherly policeman. Why should you wish to forget it? Unless it is that you did not enjoy it.
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