"While I live you are safe," rejoined Trenchard; "after my death I can answer for nothing. Then he sat down again in a chair and said that people who wrote novels ought to be strung up. NOW it’s just as though you had grown up suddenly. “Before I met you I was deluded into receiving upon friendly terms a man named Hill, who passed himself off as Meysey Hill the railway man, but who was in reality an Englishman in poor circumstances. Don't ask any more questions. All alone; and nobody cared whether he lived or died. His invalid wife and her money had been only the thin thread that held his life together; beaded on that permanent relation had been an inter-weaving series of other feminine experiences, disturbing, absorbing, interesting, memorable affairs.
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