After all, the Wastrel was in luck: he was alone. Whisky kills him suddenly; it does not sap him gradually. He would get her to come to tea with him, usually in a pleasant tea-room over a fruit-shop in Tottenham Court Road, and he would discuss his own point of view and hint at a thousand devotions were she but to command him. “Well, if I find your conversation interesting I shall listen. And you talk like that! What the devil have you been up to, to land in this bog?" It was a cast at random. Annabel had spoken calmly enough and steadily, but his brain refused at first to accept the full meaning of her words.
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