Any man might have endeavoured to protect himself in this fashion, a man with no one to care, with an unnameable terror at the thought (as if it mattered!) of being buried in alien earth, far from the familiar places he loved. “Listen, Annabel,” he said hoarsely. ” “You love—Anna?” she exclaimed. He was a comforting, humorous old ruffian; but there were few men in the Orient more deeply read in psychology and physiognomy. Is all your house on the same scale of magnificence as this, Annabel?” she asked, looking round. And, anyhow, it doesn’t matter to us. I tell you I’m Meysey Hill, the railway man. Where the robber may cheer His spirit with beer, And drown in a sea of good liquor all fear! For nothing the transit to Tyburn beguiles So well as a draught from the Bowl of Saint Giles! III. She winked at him as he shut the door.
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