not enough?” cried I. “What more would you have?”
“I expected some more-foul play!”
“Ah!” I exclaimed bitterly. “So that was all that interested you! No, there was no more foul play that I know of; and if there was, I don’t care. Nothing matters to me but one thing. Now that you know what that is, I hope you’re satisfied.”
It was no way to speak to one’s host. Yet I felt that he had pressed me unduly. I hated myself for my final confidence, and his want of sympathy made me hate him too. In my
Now, this private hotel of mine was a very old fashioned house, dark and dingy all day long, with heavy old chandeliers and black old oak, and dead flowers in broken flower-pots surrounding a grimy grass-plot in the rear. On this latter my bedroom window looked; and never am I likely to forget the