” “I haven’t told any one the amount,” he went on. It was now getting dusk, and he could only imperfectly distinguish the features and figure of the stranger. Her complexion was wan and faded, except where it was tinged by a slight hectic flush, that made the want of colour more palpable; her eyes were large and black, but heavy and lustreless; her cheeks sunken; her frame emaciated; her dark hair thickly scattered with gray. You are not my husband. He was a London man of business, spending a small legacy in Paris. She could smell his cologne underneath his collar, or perhaps his aftershave.
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