Many’s the young ’un I’ve seen get hisself into just such a knuckleheaded mess all on account of a pretty wench. “There was a man called Montague Hill,” she said hoarsely, “but he is dead. I can esteem him, regard him; but, love him as he ought to be loved—that I cannot do. The girl stood with her hands behind her back, sulky, resolute, and intelligent, a strand of her black hair over one eye and looking more than usually delicate-featured, and more than ever like an obdurate child. To begin with, he struck her as being the most variable person she had ever encountered. During the week, her uniform was the blue and white scrubs of a nurse, the job she had suffered at for twenty-seven years.
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