“You mean to tell me” he said, “that you have a lover? While I have been keeping you! Yes—keeping you!” This view of life he hurled at her as if it were an offensive missile. The washerwoman reported that she had seen a man one day riding out for an early morning hunt, but was unsure of his identity. Love stories!… A sob rushed into her throat, and to smother it she buried her face in a pillow. But no matter how you phrase it, the end is the same. Over the mantel, set into an ornately carved panel with fluted columns at each end, was a portrait of a man on horseback. The man who staggers, whose face is flushed, whose attitude is either noisily friendly or truculent, has some chance; liquor bends him eventually. A spot of colour, brighter than any rouge, burned on her cheeks.
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