"I dare say," she said, sneeringly, "a wonder you ever saw him at all."
"And then he reminded me, strangely enough, of a man I had once seen for a brief space of time in—"
"The old prison, of course."
"Yes."
"And you told him of it," she said, tauntingly.
"No, I did not. The last time I saw that man was in California six weeks ago."
"An ill-starred journey. You had better have stayed at home."
"I married that man's daughter, Miss Gastonguay."
She paused for a moment, and caught her breath with a choking sound. Then she exclaimed, indignantly: "Shame to you to perpetuate the breed! Close that window, will you? You young people have your veins full of hot blood. We old ones grow chilly."
Justin obediently closed it, then, reseating himself, gazed at her with a compassion and even a tenderness that her abusive words could neither change nor dissipate.