“It was poison—why not?” she answered. Why do you look so sad?” She opened her eyes wider and stifled her emotions. She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think. He used to call it his fire-escape—ha! ha! I've often used the ladder for my own convenience, but I never expected to turn it to such good account. The thin stream of blood on which her eyes were fastened with a nameless horror reached almost to her feet.
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