Occasionally the mere fact of lying in bed became unendurable, and she rolled out and marched about her room and whispered abuse of herself—usually until she hit against some article of furniture. There was a hint of tears in her voice. She rehearsed the story of her forlorn long lost mother in her head, what she would say to the theorymongers. God only knows what I have done, or left undone. 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. "Your servant, Sir Rowland," said the stranger, ducking his head, as he advanced. One of the things that most surprised him in her was her capacity for blind obedience.
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