She didn’t trust Gianfrancesco, you know, she called him a ‘bad husband’. You would rather live like the scum of the earth, in that little brown hovel you call a house, in bourgeois paradise. It was an awful moment—so awful, that every other feeling except deep interest in the scene seemed suspended. But what can we do? Here am I, fixed to respectability and this laboratory; you’re living at home. At the corner of Liquorpond Street stood the old Hampstead coach-office; and, on the night in question, a knot of hostlers, waggoners, drivers, and stable-boys was collected in the yard. Sure of foot, noiseless, he made the veranda and paused at the side of one of the screened windows. “These are her rooms,” she said. Gianfrancesco’s had curved differently and was darker. ‘Gérard—’ ‘What now?’ he asked, rife with suspicion. Blueskin, however, was not unattended.
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