“How are you feeling?” She asked with grave concern in her voice. Annabel is my only sister, you know, almost my only relative. I was ready to wager that your name would have marched with one of them. That is what marriage is to most young women: the ultimate escape from the family, from the unwritten laws that govern children. Any man might have endeavoured to protect himself in this fashion, a man with no one to care, with an unnameable terror at the thought (as if it mattered!) of being buried in alien earth, far from the familiar places he loved. Not far from him was a knot of lads drinking, swearing, and playing at dice as eagerly and as skilfully as any of the older hands. It seemed intolerable that she should go home and admit herself beaten. They would be quite as entertaining as the histories of Guzman D'Alfarache, Lazarillo de Tormes, Estevanillo Gonzalez, Meriton Latroon, or any of my favourite rogues,—and far more instructive.
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