She was a large, resilient girl, with a foolish smile, a still more foolish expression of earnestness, and a throaty contralto voice. Left to himself, he took a survey of the room, and his heart leaped as he beheld over the, chimney-piece, a portrait of himself. ’ ‘Valade?’ ‘Aye, sir. It was the day I borrowed a pencil; the day we first spoke to one another. He did not know—and probably never would unless she told him—that it was very easy (and comfortable for a woman) to fall into slatternly ways in this latitude. Notwithstanding her emaciation, her features still retained something of a pleasing expression, and might have been termed beautiful, had it not been for that repulsive freshness of lip denoting the habitual dram-drinker; a freshness in her case rendered the more shocking from the almost livid hue of the rest of her complexion. “Accident! She shot me,” he muttered.
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