Seventeen hours, sixteen hours. He looked just like John Wayne in a cowboy movie, his eyes narrow and squinting, except his hair was long, unruly, and jet black. The young man's imagination suddenly pictured the man as a rock, loosed from its ancient bed, crumbling as it fell. Too damned chickenhearted to confess to me he’d run off with the woman. A few minutes later she left the house on foot, and taking a hansom at the corner of the Square, drove to Anna’s flat. Run along while I rig up and get the part in my hair straight. Anna leaned forward, watching the people in the streets. Abruptly he gripped her wrist.
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