“I suppose most people’s letters are queer. Mrs Sindlesham’s wrinkled cheek had paled, and her eyes were fixed upon Gerald in a look that wrung his heart. She would wake in the night to repeat her bitter cry: “Oh, why did I burn those notes?” It added greatly to the annoyance of the situation that she had twice seen Ramage in the Avenue since her return to the shelter of her father’s roof. The young lady—if she had come in here at all—had vanished. Her gratitude swelled within her. Firmly built, as it was, the bridge creaked in such a manner with their contending efforts, that Abraham durst not venture beyond the door, where he stood, holding the light, a horrified spectator of the scene. “The very question shows your ignorance,” he declared. In his desire to be emphatic and to avenge himself for his over-night distresses, he speedily became brutal, more brutal than she had ever known him before. Better get a dress. You would rather live like the scum of the earth, in that little brown hovel you call a house, in bourgeois paradise. The thought did not occur to her, for all thought had flown out of her head. She could even think of what had happened. Why else?’ Gerald stared at her blankly. “When you married me——” Her little hand flashed out across the table.
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