Then one old crone, short-sighted and shaky-handed, called Ann Veronica “dearie,” and made some remark, obscure and slangy, of which the spirit rather than the words penetrated to her understanding. “You needn’t be worried,” she said quietly. It was a queer little bed-sitting-room almost in the roof, with a partition right across it. Probably a sick man's whim. Put him in the stocks, and there let him sleep off his drunken fit. Over here men drink because they are lonely; and when they drink too hard and too long, they wind up on the beach.
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