“Who’ll mind the baby nar?” was one of the night’s inspirations, and very frequent. "I'll go to her directly," said Wood, bustling towards the door. She had to exert tremendous energy not to sniff the air for his blood. Why should she trouble herself over that young fool, who was nothing to her; who, when he eventually sobered up, would not be able to recognize her, or if he did, as something phantasmagorical? Perhaps he should not apply the term "fool"; "unfortunate" might be the more accurate application. John said nothing. She forgot Anna’s sacrifices, forgot her own callousness, forgot the burden which she had fastened upon her sister’s shoulders. It’s all outside the world of your experience.
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