Excerpt from The Pace That Kills: A Chronicle
"I wish you a happy New Year, sir."
It was the servant, green of livery, the yellow waistcoat slashed with black, bearing the coffee and fruit.
"Put it there, please," Roland answered. And then, in recognition of the salutation, he added, "Thanks: the same to you."
"H"m," he mused, as the man withdrew, "I ought to have tipped him, I suppose."
He leaned from the bed, poured some milk into a cup, and for a second nibbled at a slice of iced orange. Through the transom came a faint odor of home-made bread, and with it the rustle of a gown and a girl"s clear laugh. The room itself was small.
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