"Why do you speak in that guarded voice, Esther? Have you anything to conceal?"
"No, sir, no. Don't excite yourself. I conceal nothing; he comes, that is all."
"But surely, not often? He is my father's curate; he cannot often come to London."
"He is not Mr. Wyndham's curate now, sir; he has a church of his own, St. Jude's they call it, at the corner of Butler-street."
"And he comes constantly to my house? To—to see my wife?"
"Your—your widow, sir."
"God help me, Esther! God help me! How am I to endure this! My poor—my beloved—my sweet—and are you exposed to this? Esther, Esther, this care turns me into a madman."
"You must stay quiet, Brother Jerome. Mr. Carr comes, and your—your widow sees him."
"Do you think she likes him?"
"Oh, sir, I would rather die than have to tell it to you."