The lines about his mouth gradually softened. “I am much obliged to you,” he said. I was worried. Sharples received them at the threshold, and holding his lantern towards the prisoners to acquaint himself with their features, nodded to Quilt, between whom and himself some secret understanding seemed to subsist, and then closed and barred the door. Away up on the hillside was the little country railway station. His invalid wife and her money had been only the thin thread that held his life together; beaded on that permanent relation had been an inter-weaving series of other feminine experiences, disturbing, absorbing, interesting, memorable affairs. I'm speaking of virtuous women—of WIVES, Madam. He wore a silk hat a little tilted, and a morning coat buttoned round a tight, contained figure; and a white slip gave a finish to his costume and endorsed the quiet distinction of his tie. She could still feel his psychic presence all around her, and she knew he was thinking of her. ‘The old man who lives here, idiot. Every time you mention the father, she turns into marble. Oh! you haven't got the key—then I must have it, I suppose.
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