Over at Temple, Willie is looking awfully uncomfortable in a class with a professor who has apparently just read all of Edgar Allen Poe's story "William Wilson," about a man who kills his own mysterious double. The professor teases out analysis from the class, about how admiration can turn to murder, and how William Wilson murdered a rival, which the professor deems "another form of murder." He asks Willie -- and needs several attempts just to get his attention -- what the murder represents. Willie can't answer, so the professor does it for him: "His own suicide." And it's only a few moments later that Willie, to the consternation of the professor and his classmates, suddenly gathers his books and hurriedly leaves the class. So it's not looking good for Willie's participation mark for this class.
Margaret's at her desk, staring forlornly, and Bennett comes over, wanting to know what the hell that was all about. She says she doesn't know what came over her. "You girls and your delicate constitutions," mutters Bennett. Margaret says it won't happen again and fortunately for her, "Redstone" still invested $150,000 in Anaconda. Bennett slides a hundred dollar bill over to her. "From him, not me," he says.
The moment he walks away, the phone on Margaret's desk rings. She sounds apprehensive as she answers (the firm's name is "Connors & Gould"), and for good reason. It is, of course, Arnold Rothstein, addressing her as "Mrs. Thompson" and asking if she got his gift. She says she did, and thanks him. She may be frightened, but that's no excuse for bad manners! Rothstein's calling from a booth in a pharmacy. He explains that as lovely as it was to see her, he'll thank her in advance for her discretion. "I'm assuming a reciprocal arrangement would be to your advantage, as well?" he says. "It would", she says. "Then, until next time", he says, hanging up. Margaret hangs up too, and looks pensively at the stuffed reptile that Nucky gave her to give to Teddy, which she has evidently yet to do.
We're over at Gillian's place now, where she's reclining on a fainting couch. Roy brings her some water, and Gillian is, as usual, most concerned with how she looks, which she assumes is awful. But given she's not currently retching and screaming in pain, she should realize she looks relatively fantastic. Roy about as much tells her so. "A gentleman in my boudoir, and me like this, no less," she says. (Like, RELAX, Gillian, you have literally sold your body to buy heroin).