Spurling was no longer allowed to visit him; he was again loaded with irons; fastened by an enormous horse-padlock to a staple in the floor; and only allowed to take repose in a chair. "We must change the subject," remarked Thornhill, pausing in his task; "this will never do. He was a London man of business, spending a small legacy in Paris. And this damning evidence―’ with a brusque gesture at the portrait ‘―must also be destroyed. Supposing she saw the young man at dinner that night, emptying his bottle? She could not go to him, sit down and draw the sordid pictures she had seen so often. Women, she had been taught, who exposed the flesh of their bodies under the eyes of man were in a special catagory of the damned. A thickly-set, sandy young man, with an unwholesome complexion and grease-smooth hair, had entered the room. That is an evil place!” She cried.
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