Superstition—you knock into it whichever way you turn. On that night,—that fatal night,—Winifred crushed all the hopes that were rising in my heart. You are right. “Yes,” she answered, looking away. A delicate flush of colour streamed into her cheeks. Seventeen hours, sixteen hours. The owner of this dress had a broad weather-beaten face, small twinkling eyes, and a bushy, grizzled beard. “You mean to tell me” he said, “that you have a lover? While I have been keeping you! Yes—keeping you!” This view of life he hurled at her as if it were an offensive missile. Still, her face never betrayed this distraction.
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