In a sense I don’t care. On the mantelpiece in front of her was a note addressed to her in Annabel’s handwriting. When the carpenter a moment afterwards stretched out his hand, scarcely knowing whether he was alive or dead, he found himself alone. In short, more preparations were made than if a state criminal was about to be executed. “A lady, Dunster. Now, Sir. And life is much the same, whether taken in battle, on the couch, or by the road-side. Almost the last female to bear the name, too,’ muttered the old lady. 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.
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