“Ruin me? Think of me with fondness? Are you dying of cancer or something?” He demanded. Previously to his descent he had left the nail and spike on the wall, and with these he fastened the blanket to the stone coping. “Then we must try and make London endurable for you,” he remarked cheerfully. He kept at it even on those nights when the monsoon began to break with heavy storms and he had to weight down with stones everything on his table. As he hesitated, unable to make up his mind what to do for the best, a heavy rumbling on the cobbles penetrated his absorption. “I think,” he said, “that I would fetch any one whom he has asked to see. ” She realized it was possible to be sorry for him—acutely sorry for the situation.
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