He was never drunk in the accepted meaning of the word; rather he walked in a kind of stupefaction. They were ingenious disguises of gilt paper destructively gummed, it would seem, to Ann Veronicas’ best dancing-slippers. He fondled her naked breasts with his fingers, then his mouth. The carpet was a quiet drugget and not excessively worn, and the bed in the corner was covered by a white quilt. There were one or two bitter moments in his life when he had been made to feel that gentility laid on with a brush may sometimes crack and show weak places—that deportment and breeding are after all things apart.
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