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. The sing-song girl, seeing Ruth, extended her hands and began to chatter rapidly. Sorry to be so nosy. Her fingers clutched the side of the door as though to steady herself. I’m sorry. . . “The doctor has asked me to give them my reasons—for shooting myself. From all angles he was at a disadvantage—in weight, skill, endurance.
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