What was he doing? What was he thinking? It was less than a day now, less than twenty hours. “You are very kind to think of it,” she said, “but—don’t you think perhaps—that I had better not?” He smiled indulgently. The Widgett mental furniture was perhaps worn and shabby, but there it was before you, undisguised, fading visibly in an almost pitiless sunlight. Here was an appalling fact: all her previous loneliness had been trifling beside that which now encompassed her and would for years to come. Chapter XXIX MONTAGUE HILL PLAYS THE GAME The man opened his eyes and looked curiously about him. Permit me to introduce myself.
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