But once he had steered the lady down the hall and along a passage to a window seat at the end, he abandoned the subject of society. It was such an unexpected stroke of fortune. Hang the wench! Roding was right. His analytical bent saved him many times, though he was not sensitive to this. Then she looked at her aunt, and traced with a curious eye the careful arrangement of her hair, her sharp nose, the little drooping lines of mouth and chin and cheek. Utter silence answered him. That is how I learned that there were such things as novels. When I absorb a fact, my brain weighs the fact carefully and stores it away. It was a habit of his to talk to himself. "But I wish her hand had been as deadly as yours. People are brought up to be so shy about money. You see, I—I am a woman worshipper. ‘None of them means anything to you at all? How odd.
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