CHAPTER XXIII. THE PARK

anceoflanguorandflatness,relievedbyasinisterexpressioninthemouthandthedull,soullesseyes. “Idetestthatman!”whisperedLadyAshby,withbitteremphasis,asheslowlytrottedby. “Whoisit?”Iasked,unwillingtosupposethatsheshouldsospeakofherhusband. “SirThomasAshby,”shereplied,withdrearycomposure. “Anddoyoudetesthim,MissMurray?”saidI,forIwastoomuchshockedtorememberhernameatthemoment. “Yes,Ido,MissGrey,anddespisehimtooandifyouknewhimyouwouldnotblameme.” “Butyouknewwhathewasbeforeyoumarriedhim.” “NoIonlythoughtso:Ididnothalfknowhimreally.Iknowyouwarnedmeagainstit,andIwishIhadlistenedtoyou:butit’stoolatetoregretthatnow.Andbesides,mammaoughttohaveknownbetterthaneitherofus,andsheneversaidanythingagainstit—quitethecontrary.AndthenIthoughtheadoredme,andwouldletmehavemyownway:hedidpretendtodosoatfirst,butnowhedoesnotcareabitaboutme.YetIshouldnotcareforthat:hemightdoashepleased,ifImightonlybefreetoamusemyselfandtostayinLondon,orhaveafewfriendsdownhere:buthewilldoashepleases,andImustbeaprisonerandaslave.ThemomenthesawIcouldenjoymyselfwithouthim,andthatothersknewmyvaluebetterthanhimself,theselfishwretchbegantoaccusemeofcoquetryandextravaganceandtoabuseHarryMeltham,whoseshoeshewasnotworthytoclean.Andthenhemustneedshavemedowninthecountry,tole