The poet's appearance altogether was highly prepossessing. I do not care, but only that you will leave my affairs to me. I’m in a mess—a nasty mess! a filthy mess! Oh, no end of a mess! “Do you hear, Ann Veronica?—you’re in a nasty, filthy, unforgivable mess! “Haven’t I just made a silly mess of things? “Forty pounds! I haven’t got twenty!” She got up, stamped with her foot, and then, suddenly remembering the lodger below, sat down and wrenched off her boots. Her eyelids fluttered with recognition, and she cried out softly. “I won’t go home,” she said; “I won’t!” and she evaded the clutch of the fatherly policeman and tried to thrust herself past him in the direction of that big portal. The little girl uttered no remonstrance; but, replacing the flowers in the basket, burst into tears, and withdrew.
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