The ribald demons that infested the back of Ann Veronica’s mind urged various facetious interrogations upon her, as, for example, where the witness had acquired his prose style. “Well,” she achieved at last. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. There was just a minute’s hesitation before they gave her a room. But somehow he could not bring any of these affairs to an orderly end. “He looks as though he did, at any rate. I am sorry that I do not know any one in London. I care not. I was afraid of being talked about. Do you think that I shall ever make an actress, my friend?” “I doubt it,” he answered bluntly. It made her laugh, which in turn made him laugh. She felt she had to go on.
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