ABSTRACT
Moira was weeping, though tears did not become her as well as they used, now that indifferent food and comforting gin had accustomed her nose to redness. “Harry, must you go? Christmas time and all? Whatever am I to do all by myself in this place with not a soul to talk to but that vulgar landlady? You know what she is – coming calling me filthy names time after time, and you’ve never said a word to her. After everything I’ve given up for you, too. But I suppose you think nothing matters so long as you’re comfortable. Ah, but Harry, do stay. I’ll be so lonesome without you, dear.”
