In the next place, she really had some pretensions to beauty. Occasionally the mere fact of lying in bed became unendurable, and she rolled out and marched about her room and whispered abuse of herself—usually until she hit against some article of furniture. She wondered what the problem was, why the buildup? She wanted to go to his apartment that evening but stayed herself. He was a young man of about two-and-twenty, who, without having anything remarkable either in dress or appearance, was yet a noticeable person, if only for the indescribable expression of cunning pervading his countenance. He tore it down just as the Wastrel rose, wavering slightly.
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