But somehow he could not bring any of these affairs to an orderly end. The act was mechanical, a bit of sparring for time: his anger was searching about for a new vent. “Nothing,” said Ann Veronica, and stared over her shoulder out of the window. Long ago. Would there be enough in the young man's envelope to pay the doctor and the hotel bill—and in the event of his death, enough to ship the body home? So all things pointed to the happy circumstance of setting this young fool upon his feet again, of seeing him hence upon his journey. There was nothing in the pockets of the coat.
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