Later, at the bottom of that envelope I found a letter. “I heard the other day that she’d been taken in by some cad of a fellow who was cutting a great dash in Paris, personating Meysey Hill, the great railway man. But native! She must watch out. Notwithstanding her emaciation, her features still retained something of a pleasing expression, and might have been termed beautiful, had it not been for that repulsive freshness of lip denoting the habitual dram-drinker; a freshness in her case rendered the more shocking from the almost livid hue of the rest of her complexion. It is so difficult. She perceived she had never really thought of any one but herself in all her acts and plans. He did not spend more time with her. She had thought—What had she thought? That this dependence of women was but an illusion which needed only to be denied to vanish. ’ ‘Unless it is Captain Roding,’ put in Lucilla Froxfield from the curved back sofa on the other side of the fireplace.
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