To-night there seemed to be a new brilliancy in her eyes, a deeper quality in her tone. ” “What case?” “A divorce—or something—I don’t know. Your life is like a funeral March. It was as if Grace-church Street, with all its shops, its magazines, and ceaseless throng of passengers, were stretched from the Middlesex to the Surrey shore. She had black hair, fine eyebrows, and a clear complexion; and the forces that had modelled her features had loved and lingered at their work and made them subtle and fine. In the twilight he had ceased to be a person one could tackle and shame; he had become something more general, a something that crawled and sneaked toward her and would not let her alone. CHAPTER VIII.
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