” He plunged into one of his drawers, and brought up a small gold-foiled bottle. He returned figuratively to his bed—the bed he had made for himself and in which he must for ever lie. I’m making a mess of my life— unless you come in and take it. And Ann Veronica walked beside him, trying in vain to soften her heart to him by the thought of how she had ill-used him, and all the time, as her feet and mind grew weary together, rejoicing more and more that at the cost of this one interminable walk she escaped the prospect of—what was it?—“Ten thousand days, ten thousand nights” in his company. Will you read to me? I am tired; and the sound of your voice makes me drowsy.
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