Her complexion was wan and faded, except where it was tinged by a slight hectic flush, that made the want of colour more palpable; her eyes were large and black, but heavy and lustreless; her cheeks sunken; her frame emaciated; her dark hair thickly scattered with gray. Poor Ben was not so fortunate. Men ought not to idealize any woman. And I passed myself off as Meysey Hill, and since—then—I haven’t had a minute’s peace. That is easy. A thin line of red appeared in the white neck. I must have something in hand. Lights gleamed from the lower rooms, and, on a nearer approach to the building, the sound of revelry might be heard from within. No more.
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