“He is not—I don’t like him. Mrs. But I am not worthy to be any man's wife —far less his wife. Moving swiftly to the end of the corridor, he pushed open a door at random and entered a large room, which looked to have been a saloon, judging from the faded gilt and crimson wall-paper, a mirror above the fireplace which was surrounded by an ornate gilded frame, now sadly tarnished, and a worn Chippendale sofa with striped upholstery and tasselled cushions. . Heedless, however, of the consequences, he pursued his task. The fellow Kimble, to whom Gerald was indebted, was gaping.
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