"Out!" Molly advanced upon him.
He placed a chair in front of him. "I know where your husband is—in the Marylebone Workhouse Infirmary; that's where he is. I shall go to him. 'Anthony,' I shall say, 'your wife's over here—with another man.'"
Molly threw the chair down, and rushed at him.
He fled before the fire and fury of those eyes.
"Molly dear," Alice asked, "am I hard-hearted? I have not a spark of feeling left for that man; it moved me not in the least to hear of his wretched plight. He is to me just a stranger—a bad man—suffering just punishment."
"But his name is Woodroffe. That is strange, is it not?"
"Yes; his name is Woodroffe. He belonged, he always said, to a highly respectable family. That fact did not make him respectable."
"I wonder if he is any relation to Dick—my old friend, Dick Woodroffe. He's a musician now, and singer, too, and his father was a comedian before him."