I was his wife. Her husband had caught her leaning over a precipice into the ruins of the oubliette, and had punished her by flogging her back with a switch. Yet her aunt, with a ringed hand flitting to her lips and a puzzled, worried look in her eyes, deaf to all this riot of warmth and flitting desire, was playing Patience—playing Patience, as if Dionysius and her curate had died together. Though by no means so extensive or commodious as the modern prison, Old Newgate was a large and strongly-built pile. She had thought that all Morningside Park householders came home before seven at the latest, as her father usually did. "I have sworn to see him hanged," he said, "and nothing shall keep me away— nothing, by——. And, as he quitted the room, the poor widow fell with her face upon the floor.
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