He lifted her from the floor. Her face expressed nothing. And Ann Veronica walked beside him, trying in vain to soften her heart to him by the thought of how she had ill-used him, and all the time, as her feet and mind grew weary together, rejoicing more and more that at the cost of this one interminable walk she escaped the prospect of—what was it?—“Ten thousand days, ten thousand nights” in his company. “They have all been trying to turn my head. I doubt I hold any interest for him anymore. I struck him across the face, jumped out and went back by train to Paris. Wood, Sir," he added, with much emotion, "is one of the best of men, and would be the happiest, were it not that—" and he hesitated. The odds were astounding and yet he had it bad. Perhaps this was the real turning point: the hour in which the disordered mind began permanently to readjust itself.
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