One day she awoke and he was cavorting about underneath the covers. He forgot for the moment his own self-pity, the egotism of his own passionate love. She became eager to explain herself, to show herself in the right light. She knew the significance: the red corpuscle was being burnt out by the fires of alcohol. A wooden balcony in one of the adjoining houses was thronged with ladies, all of whom appeared to take a lively interest in the scene, and to be full of commiseration for the criminal, not, perhaps, unmixed with admiration of his appearance. It seemed an emblem of the ruin he had caused.
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