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. “I wonder,” she said, “why one writes him sentences like that? It’ll have to go,” she decided, “I’ve written too many already. Even Capes had been for her merely an excitant to passionate love—a mere idol at whose feet one could enjoy imaginative wallowings. ‘You mean that his missus is pretending to be my mistress? Lord-a-mercy!’ ‘Precisely. “You are not content then with stealing from me my name. Stanley pointed to the letter with a pipe he had drawn from his jacket pocket. Wood, at Dollis Hill —" "Let me have one," said a carpenter, who was passing by at the moment,—"Mr. .
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