Stanley’s pace slackened. Yet I think that he will do it. “Broddick is a heavy man,” he was saying, “and the main interest of the play was the embezzlement. A new inexplicable madness that urged him to shrill ironically the story of his coat—to take it off and fling it at the feet of any stranger who chanced to be nigh. He crawled underneath the covers with her. For a while they stood there, silent, motionless, staring at the doorway where still a few strings of the bamboo curtain swayed and twisted, agitated by the Wastrel's passage. Slowly a mirthless and very unpleasant smile dawned upon his face. He would never be able to compose upon it, but it would serve to produce the finished work. It does not matter to him either way.
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