He grunted, and his grip gave. Towards this box Sharples directed his steps, and, unlocking a hatch in the door, disclosed a recess scarcely as large, and certainly not as clean, as a dog-kennel. He—he has rather a poor opinion of his contemporaries. Their conversation degenerated again and again into a strain of self-congratulation that would have irked an eavesdropper. “Who killed her husband?” “Go and nurse him, missus!” “Murderess!” Anna looked from left to right. And ever after it struck him that her backward smile as she disappeared was charged with some special significance.
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