‘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. She leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes. ‘I can’t do that. She relented out of exhaustion, yet he would not let her near Marina, his embrace tightening. She peered into the darkness. Not much. They sold him the whisky. I think a wife a needless incumbrance, and mean to die a bachelor. The next page was a drawing that she had made in pen and ink of his face, or what she had remembered of it. You fell in at once with her quixotic and damnable scheme of foisting her reputation and her follies upon your shoulders whilst she marries a rich man and commences all over again a life of selfish pleasure. The present divinity of the cellar was a comely middle-aged dame, almost as stout, and quite as shrill-voiced, as the Billingsgate fish-wives above-mentioned, Mrs.
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