“The Holy Ghost! The Pope! My mother!” She squealed. “Why not?” He asked. The young lady in the bureau said she would inquire, and Ann Veronica, while she affected to read the appeal on a hospital collecting-box upon the bureau counter, had a disagreeable sense of being surveyed from behind by a small, whiskered gentleman in a frock-coat, who came out of the inner office and into the hall among a number of equally observant green porters to look at her and her bags. The small bed’s hospital corners had been put into disarray by Michelle’s crying fit. Between him and the beach stood the sum of six hundred dollars. What more could any reasonable man— especially a watchman—desire? Besides, the Marquis, is a devilish fine fellow, and a particular friend of mine. I can assure you, Anna, it will take me years to get decently established.
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