‘Your teeth.’ One canine had gone, and the front teeth were yellow with tartar and carious. He said, ‘You want to pay attention to them.’ ‘What is the good?’ the stranger said. He held a small spot of brandy in his glass warily – as if it was an animal to which he gave shelter, but not trust. He had the air, in his hollowness and neglect, of somebody of no account who had been beaten up incidentally, by ill-health or restlessness. He sat on the very edge of the rocking-chair, with his small attaché case balanced on his knee and the brandy staved off with guilty affection.
