“Why not?” He repeated, demanding. The aunt laughed. Moving swiftly to the end of the corridor, he pushed open a door at random and entered a large room, which looked to have been a saloon, judging from the faded gilt and crimson wall-paper, a mirror above the fireplace which was surrounded by an ornate gilded frame, now sadly tarnished, and a worn Chippendale sofa with striped upholstery and tasselled cushions. “Drugs, mainly. She had prepared herself to meet violent protest, a recurrence of that burning glance. Her tone was hoarse with passion. You don’t know what you ask nor what you say.
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