Supper was over. “She’s my wife,” the man muttered. She could not be more than twenty; and though want and other suffering had done the work of time, had wasted her frame, and robbed her cheek of its bloom and roundness, they had not extinguished the lustre of her eyes, nor thinned her raven hair. ‘Do you think I could bear to be without you for a moment longer? I am quite jealous of Melusine taking up all your attention. They WERE, she realized, acutely beautiful things. Your life, and that of your child, are in my power. I must leave England to-night. .
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