Such apartments as she saw were either scandalously dirty or unaccountably dear, or both. He smothered a laugh. “Here we are,” he said, “shining through each other like light through a stained-glass window. His letter of credit; probably that was it; and, observing the strangeness of the room he was in, his first concern on returning to consciousness would naturally relate to his letter of credit. If he died, here in this hotel, who would care? Or if she died, who would care? A queer desire blossomed in her heart: to go to him, urge him to see the folly of trying to forget.
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