He patted the hand on his sleeve. He was a square-faced man of nearly fifty, with iron-gray hair a mobile, cleanshaven mouth and rather protuberant black eyes that now scrutinized Ann Veronica. Her teeth were chattering so hard that she had to clench them for fear of biting off her own tongue. “I see the difficulty. Three short days. She got home every night in time to cook supper and it was good money. The man who staggers, whose face is flushed, whose attitude is either noisily friendly or truculent, has some chance; liquor bends him eventually.
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