“Is that the way—” began the aunt. “Mercy!” she murmured; and she sat staring at the picture.
Molly remained silent.
Her aunt looked slowly up at her. “Has a man like that presumed—”
“He's not a bit like that. Yes, he's exactly like that,” said Molly. And she would have snatched the photograph away, but her aunt retained it.
“Well,” she said, “I suppose there are days when he does not kill people.”
“He never killed anybody!” And Molly laughed.
“Are you seriously—” said the old lady.
“I almost might—at times. He is perfectly splendid.”
“My dear, you have fallen in love with his clothes.”
“It's not his clothes. And I'm not in love. He often wears others. He wears a white collar like anybody.”