“It was your own fault,” she exclaimed. Come into the parlour, Winifred, and dry your eyes directly, or I'll send you to bed. Mind, I am anticipating events. Rather a magniloquent term, perhaps, but what else am I to say? One of these is that the most absolutely selfish thing in the world is to give way to depression, to think of one’s troubles at all except of how to overcome them. Something or other—she did not catch what—he was damned if he could stand. He was the Napoleon of knavery, and established an uncontrolled empire over all the practitioners of crime. Her dainty shoes were soiled with dust and there was a great tear in her skirt. Not even, it seemed, this interfering monsieur le major.
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