But I do hope, Vee, I do hope—this is the end of these adventures. Will you read to me? I am tired; and the sound of your voice makes me drowsy. I’m making a mess of my life— unless you come in and take it. I will be as silent as the grave. “I must take them,” she said, to help herself over her own incredulity. I’ve told them all that was necessary, but I— wanted to ask your pardon—for having made myself a nuisance to you, and for breaking into your rooms—and to thank you—the doctor says you bound up my wound—or I should have bled to death. By many a highwayman many a draught Of nutty-brown ale at Saint Giles's was quaft, Until the old lazar-house chanced to fall down, And the broad-bottom'd bowl was removed to the Crown. Oh, you cannot escape from it.
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