“Please forgive me—for one moment,” she sobbed. ‘Why do you think I told you about the portrait? I’d not seen it, of course, but I’d seen Miss Mary just before she got married, which is when it was painted. He led her unerringly, pushing her down the narrow stairway that had been the servants’ access to the upper floors, and thence through a small door that led into the chapel. He appeared to be a stranger to the prisoner, and the sole motive of his visit, curiosity. At once. Her attenuated arms were crossed upon her breast; and her black brows and eyelashes contrasted fearfully with the livid whiteness of her skin. When he returned from pissing, he sat down with her. He hesitated. Sulphurous poisons assaulted her nostrils as she threw the stone to one side of its resting place. ’ ‘What husband?’ ‘Precisely.
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