THE WINDOWwhen it was painful to feel herself convicted ofunworthiness, and impeded in her proper functionby these lies, these exaggerations—it was at thismoment when she was fretted thus ignobly in thewake of her exaltation, that Mr. Carmichael shuffledpast, in his yellow slippers, and some demon inher made it necessary for her to call out, as hepassed,

"Going indoors, Mr. Carmichael?"VIII

He said nothing. He took opium. The childrensaid he had stained his beard yellow with it. Per-haps. What was obvious to her was that the poorman was unhappy, came to them every year as anescape; and yet every year, she felt the same thing;he did not trust her. She said, "I am going to thetown. Shall I get you stamps, paper, tobacco?" andshe felt him wince. He did not trust her. It was hiswife’s doing. She remembered that iniquity of hiswife’s towards him, which had made her turn tosteel and adamant there, in the horrid little room inSt. John’s Wood, when with her own eyes she hadseen that odious woman turn him out of the house.He was unkempt; he dropped things on his coat;he had the tiresomeness of an old man with nothing63
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