“Thank you,” she said coolly. Their heads touched again, their arms tightened. At first she thought he was endeavouring to rid himself of the fleas, but after a time she came to understand that the muck had healing qualities and soothed the burning scratches made by his claws. If he died, here in this hotel, who would care? Or if she died, who would care? A queer desire blossomed in her heart: to go to him, urge him to see the folly of trying to forget. " "Irons—heavy irons—night and day. But don’t think your heroic milice will save you.
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