Wood, who had merely absented himself to see that a public breakfast, which he had ordered at the Six Bells for all who chose to partake of it, was in readiness. As she raised it, its lower portion fell apart into two baggy crimson masses. Little things, almost impalpable, had happened to justify that doubt; something in his manner had belied his words. “Come on in. And there are other guides. Coffee à la Turque wasn't so bad; but a guy couldn't soak his breakfast toast in it. She realized more and more the quality of the brink upon which she stood—the dreadful readiness with which in certain moods she might plunge, the unmitigated wrongness and recklessness of such a self-abandonment. Thinking of Mantua, she wandered to the courtyard.
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