From the threshold she looked her accuser steadily and coldly in the face. Pragmar probably knew Mr. ‘Me, I am tout à fait stupide. Love stories!… A sob rushed into her throat, and to smother it she buried her face in a pillow. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. His shirt was unfastened, his vest unbuttoned, his hose ungartered; his feet were stuck into a pair of pantoufles, his arms into a greasy flannel dressing-gown, his head into a thrum-cap, the cap into a tie-periwig, and the wig into a gold-edged hat. “Why, it’s David!” he exclaimed. In this state of knowledge you will be horribly, irrevocably, alone. He has told me sufficient of you—" "My dear," interposed Wood, "for goodness' sake—" "I will speak," screamed his wife, totally disregarding the interruption; "I will tell this worthless creature what I know about her,—and what I think of her.
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