“I think they do. Wood, in his Sunday habiliments and Sunday buckle. “Is your husband here to-night?” he asked. She could tell it was new territory for him and he might lose the nerve to take them off himself, without the aid of drink. He had but to give his orders. Why should she trouble herself over that young fool, who was nothing to her; who, when he eventually sobered up, would not be able to recognize her, or if he did, as something phantasmagorical? Perhaps he should not apply the term "fool"; "unfortunate" might be the more accurate application. Don’t stand gawping, man.
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