. No sterner head was ever beheld beneath the cowl of a monk, or the bonnet of an inquisitor. Thames unfolded the drawing, smoothed out its creases, and beheld a portrait of himself. His invalid wife and her money had been only the thin thread that held his life together; beaded on that permanent relation had been an inter-weaving series of other feminine experiences, disturbing, absorbing, interesting, memorable affairs. Narrow little beady brown eyes, and she’s got big eyebrows like dead caterpillars. Over the mantel, set into an ornately carved panel with fluted columns at each end, was a portrait of a man on horseback. There was nothing on her face to hint of the misery that brimmed her heart this morning.
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