“Hello,” Sydney said quietly. “How’s the bold warrior?”
George blinked at him. Sydney was standing in the doorway, dressed in the dirty white dressing-gown, his lean, hard face cold and expressionless.
“I must have fainted,” George said, moving over to an armchair and sitting down. He examined his hand uneasily. “Did you do this?”
Sydney grunted. “Don’t worry about that,” he said casually. “I shoved a few stitches in it. It’ll be all right.”
“Stitches? You put stitches in it?”
“Why not? In my racket you get used to razor-cuts. Did you see what they did to Cora?”
“They beat her… didn’t they?” George went cold. “They certainly did. Nice mob. They’ll pay for this, George.”
George held his head in his hands. “I don’t understand,” he said. “Why did she do it? She threw wine in his face.”
“Never mind why she did it,” Sydney said. “You’re in love with her, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” George said, no longer caring what Sydney would say or do.