He could not put his fingers down his throat without her hearing it.

As soon as he came home of an evening she listened, in spite of herself, to everything he did.

His black leather hat laid with a dull thud on the chest of drawers, like a shovelful of earth; the black cloak hung up and rustling against the walls like the wings of some night bird; all the black toggery flung into the middle of the room and filling it with the trappings of mourning.

She heard him stamping about, felt anxious at the least movement, and was quite startled if he knocked against the furniture or rattled any of his crockery.

This confounded drunkard was her preoccupation, filling her with a secret fear mingled with a desire to know.