“Life—things—I don’t think her prospects now—Hopeful outlook. And when there is no longer any need to use it, why then, enough you say—and throw it away. If not, I have plenty to think about,” she answered, leaning back in her chair, and watching the smoke from her own cigarette curl upwards. Nothing ensued. She grew perhaps a shade paler, and she glanced out into the street, where her four-wheeler cab, laden with luggage, was still waiting. On the bench was set a quartern measure of gin, a crust of bread, and a slice of cheese. Conscience was always digging sudden pits for his feet and common sense ridiculing his fears. You cannot—shall not retreat. The Ragged Edge.
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