She felt she had to go on. G. O'Higgins struck a match and lit his Henry Clay, thereby drawing upon himself the mutual disapproval of the spinsters. The smell assaulted them even before they entered the restaurant, greasy and savory. He stooped to recover it, and his face was hidden. She knew now the supreme human energy which sent men to hell or carried them to their earthly heights. Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love. No offence, I hope. You have the look in your eyes to-night which you had that day, the look of a frightened child. But I liked the things you said here.
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