I've still chances. There's still a card or so. I can't tell all my
plans--like speaking on the stroke."
"You might," I began.
"I can't, George. It's like asking to look at some embryo. You got to
wait. I know. In a sort of way, I know. But to tell it--No! You been
away so long. And everything's got complicated."
My perception of disastrous entanglements deepened with the rise of his
spirits. It was evident that I could only help to tie him up in whatever
net was weaving round his mind by forcing questions and explanations
upon him. My thoughts flew off at another angle. "How's Aunt Susan?"
said I.
I had to repeat the question. His busy whispering lips stopped for a
moment, and he answered in the note of one who repeats a formula.
"She'd like to be in the battle with me. She'd like to be here in
London. But there's corners I got to turn alone." His eye rested for a
moment on the little bottle beside him. "And things have happened.
"You might go down now and talk to her," he said, in a directer voice.
"I shall be down to-morrow night, I think.
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