“And what was that dreadful confession you had to make?” he was saying. She went about in a negligent November London that had become very dark and foggy and greasy and forbidding indeed, and tried to find that modest but independent employment she had so rashly assumed. Her aunt arrived about halfpast ten, in black and with an unusually thick spotted veil. Her soul was full of the sense of disaster. Fresh ground, no chicory, and all the rest of it. This discovery made, I hastened back to London to offer you my hand, but found you had married in the mean time a smock-faced, smooth-tongued carpenter named Sheppard.
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