She was taken dreadfully ill on the road, with spasms and short breath, and swoonings,—worse than ever she was before. Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. A physiognomist, indeed, would have likened him to that crafty animal, and it must be owned the general formation of his features favoured such a comparison. His clothes had evidently seen some service, and were plentifully begrimed with the dust of the workshop. But after all, what did it matter whether she had secrets or not? To him she was not a woman but a symbol; and one did not investigate the antecedents of symbols. Stanley and his sister into a taxicab, and had waved an amiable farewell from the pavement steps.
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