She slipped it calmly into her pocket. If he had nothing to tell her, she had nothing to ask. 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. Like a petulant child he snapped. He had, he felt, to create certain ideas and vivify certain curiosities and feelings in her. In consequence of the encouragement thus offered to dishonesty, and the security afforded to crime, this quarter of the Borough of Southwark was accounted (at the period of our narrative) the grand receptacle of the superfluous villainy of the metropolis. Vee’s all right. “Who tied this scarf here?” he asked, looking up.
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