‘Hates doing the pretty. It’s a sort of blacklegging to want to have a life of one’s own. ‘His wife? Pah!’ ‘You’re saying she is not his wife?’ ‘I am saying nothing. She remembered him as a dull figure, a big man with a belly that was already showing fat under his fine scarlet clothes. She carried herself well, whereas her brother slouched, and there was a certain aristocratic dignity about her that she had acquired through her long engagement to a curate of family, a scion of the Wiltshire Edmondshaws. . And, lastly, to the Seven Cities o' Refuge, in the New Mint. She could smell his cologne underneath his collar, or perhaps his aftershave.
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