“Here!” she muttered. “You’re forgetting this.”
He turned.
She stretched her hand to the night-table and held up a red circlet.
“What is it?”
“It’s the bit of paper off the cigar you bought in the Rue Montmartre this afternoon,” she answered, in a significant tone.
He hesitated, then swore violently, and bounced out of the room. He had made her suffer, but she was almost repaid for everything by that moment of cruel triumph. She exulted in it, and never forgot it.
Five minutes later, the gloomy menial in felt slippers and alpaca jacket, who seemed to pass the whole of his life flitting in and out of bedrooms like a rabbit in a warren, carried Gerald’s trunk downstairs. She recognized the peculiar tread of his slippers.
Then there was a knock at the door. The landlady entered, actuated by a legitimate curiosity.
“Madame is suffering?” the landlady began.
Sophia refused offers of food and nursing.