” “Then she has never been my wife. All the world about her seemed to be—how can one put it?—in wrappers, like a house when people leave it in the summer. “And I have dragged you all over here for nothing,” she murmured. . She was dressed as English girls do dress for town, without either coquetry or harshness: her collarless blouse confessed a pretty neck, her eyes were bright and steady, and her dark hair waved loosely and graciously over her ears. There was a tearing sound as the canvas gave way, and the precious portrait ripped apart as the top of the Frenchman’s head came through it. At a turn in the road, he perceived Winifred looking anxiously towards him, and when she discovered him, she waved her hand. He had been ill; no matter about that: he recollected every thought that had led up to it and every act that had consummated the deed.
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