"I don't think he would leave me, even if I could part with him," observed Mrs. ‘Dunderhead. 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. All the linen was new and stamped with the mark of Whiteaway, Laidlaw & Co. Somehow her walk home with him had been transmogrified into a melodramatic rejection, a slamming. ‘I’m following a scent. ‘I am not a murderer.
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