There was no one stirring in the flats. She had taken care he should have this momentous talk with her on a garden-seat commanded by the windows of the house. Then she looked at her aunt, and traced with a curious eye the careful arrangement of her hair, her sharp nose, the little drooping lines of mouth and chin and cheek. “But I am your husband,” he said. Presently her aunt sighed deeply and looked at the clock. She rambles continually about Jack, and her husband, and that wretch Jonathan, to whom, as far as can be gathered from her wild ravings, she attributes all her misery.
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