Couldn’t face me with what he’d done, the miserable blackguard. Her birthday was four months away, and that, at its extremist point, might give her another five pounds. Stanley considered. Yet in some hidden corner was a vein of sentiment, of which for the first time in his later life he was now unexpectedly aware. Until he felt a sharpness digging into his coat at the point of his heart. Superimposed was the agitating thought of what would follow the death of this unwelcome guest: confusion, poking authorities, British and American red tape. He went in there, and he was in there for a good half hour.
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