Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. “They would spoil every chance. The doll she had never owned, the cat and the dog that had never been hers: here they were, strangely incorporated in this sleeping man. It doesn’t mean that these men deserve to die for whatever they have done, John. ‘What did you do with the portrait then? Not that I suppose it is much use any longer. Knew something was up. A riding-habit is all I have seen.
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