Chapter XXII AN OLD FOOL Lady Ferringhall made room for him on the sofa by her side. There was a little pain, but it wasn’t anything. "It's wretched enough, indeed, Sir," rejoined the widow; "but, poor as it is, it's better than the cold stones and open streets. “No Christmas dinner,” she said, “or anything nice! One doesn’t even know what you are doing. Balanced on his nose were enormous tortoise-shell spectacles. Ann Veronica jumped up to get her the cardtable. He figures them out, though. But pathologically, he is still on the edge.
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