Ennison roused himself with an effort, took a long drink from his whisky and soda, and lit a cigarette. "He has not the power—perhaps not the will to do so. He was still flashily dressed, with much obvious jewellery and the shiniest of patent boots, but his general bearing and appearance had altered for the worse. I have only just left Wych Street. “Sit down,” he said, and perused—“perused” is the word for it—for some moments. I guess they were bad all the time. She was pleased and a little flattered by his interest and sympathy. It’s not fair to you.
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