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” She stopped short. ” “Yes,” said Mr. She opened it and drew out a letter, and folded within it were the notes she had sent off to Ramage that day. “You are really a good Samaritan,” she declared. She dared not say the word aloud, not even to herself. I’m in a mess—a nasty mess! a filthy mess! Oh, no end of a mess! “Do you hear, Ann Veronica?—you’re in a nasty, filthy, unforgivable mess! “Haven’t I just made a silly mess of things? “Forty pounds! I haven’t got twenty!” She got up, stamped with her foot, and then, suddenly remembering the lodger below, sat down and wrenched off her boots. She tied the obi clumsily about her waist, then gently laid her hand on the bowed head. Figg, the noted prize-fighter, from the New Amphitheatre in Marylebone Fields.
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