And it is your own fault that your husband dallies with me. “I do mean that,” she declared. Gosse, if he had any sense, would immediately seek out the Remenham lawyers. Who knows?—on the analogy of “Squiggles” she might come to call him “Mangles!” “I don’t think I can ever marry any one,” she said, and fell suddenly into another set of considerations that perplexed her for a time. She was suddenly grave. The windows which were about nine feet from the floor, had no glass; but were secured by thick iron bars, and an oaken beam. A few yards further off something grey, inert, was lying, a huddled-up heap of humanity twisted into a strange unnatural shape. There were sidetables and a writing table, similarly buried in bric-a-brac, and the chair by the French doors could hardly be seen for blankets. “Dear husband,” she murmured. Notwithstanding her emaciation, her features still retained something of a pleasing expression, and might have been termed beautiful, had it not been for that repulsive freshness of lip denoting the habitual dram-drinker; a freshness in her case rendered the more shocking from the almost livid hue of the rest of her complexion.
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