Chapter ThirtyLazare went out, the bolts ran home, Bill and Sally were alone.
All the time that Lazare and Gregor were in the room Sally did not raise her eyes or look at Bill, but when they were gone she looked up and tried to smile, tried hard, and very nearly burst out crying instead. Bill stood before the burnt-out fire, his handcuffed hands behind him, his head a little sunk forward, and his face plastered with mud.
Between them stretched the rose-wreathed carpet, wet and dirty from all those trampling feet. The water dripped from Sally’s skirt and made a dark stain upon the roses.
Sally got up, holding on to her chair.
“Your poor face—all that mud,” she said in a little shaken voice. “Oh, my poor dear,” and she went with slow, difficult steps to the bathroom, soaked the end of a
