Her lips were dry and cracked. To-night we leave for Marseilles. “You must send for the police at once, you know. “And what is it all about, Veronica?” he asked, with a deliberate note of irony, looking at her a little quizzically over his glasses. She could feel Martin’s eyes boring into her as she entered the room, her own personal Farhat. She had a bittersweet fragrance, like dusty books and honeysuckle. “How dared you do yourself this injustice?” “I did it for her sake,” she answered. “Maternity,” she said, “has been our undoing. "Poor thing!" muttered he, as the widow departed on her errand, "she's seen better days and better circumstances than she'll ever see again, I'm sure.
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