The Procession to Tyburn 462 XXXII. “Next door,” said a spectacled young person of seventeen or eighteen, with an impatient indication of the direction. At times he was brilliant and masterful, talked round and over every one, and would have been domineering if he had not been extraordinarily kindly; at times he was almost monosyllabic, and defeated Miss Garvice’s most skilful attempts to draw him out. The man was my husband. “How dared you do yourself this injustice?” “I did it for her sake,” she answered. It was debauching, this—a devilish art which drew such strange allurements from a face and figure almost Madonna-like in their simplicity. The old lady clearly read his state of mind, for the apparently irrepressible dimple peeped out.
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