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The afternoon was her own; but from eight until midnight she sat beside the patient. Behind them stalked Blueskin, enveloped in a rough great-coat, called—appropriately enough in this instance,—a wrap-rascal. At the back of her mind there seemed always one irrelevant qualifying spectator whose presence she sought to disregard. Rotten, and covered with a thick coat of dirt, the boards of the floor presented a very insecure footing; the bare walls were scored all over with grotesque designs, the chief of which represented the punishment of Nebuchadnezzar. Then he put the paper by. She had never even brought a friend home in her time at the Becks, let alone been asked on dates. She slipped down the perfunctory flight of stairs, short because of the home’s split-level style. She pushed. The door closed upon her, and he moved reluctantly away. “I refuse.
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