"His wife is still living," returned Kneebone, drily. As a rule, Courtlaw told her softly, he talked right and left, and to everybody throughout the whole of the meal—tonight he was almost silent, and seemed to devote his whole attention to staring at Anna. Beyond was a chaise longue, covered with cushions and shawls laid anyhow across it, together with a discarded tapestry in the making, and a scattering of woollen threads about it. What else could one say? I left him to suppose—a registry perhaps. If I'd not gone mad, they would have hanged me.
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