He lowered his eyelids quickly, and waited silently till she came near and stood on the other side of the little table.

He would not look at her face, but he could see the red dressing-gown he knew so well.

She trailed through life in that red dressing-gown, with its row of dirty blue bows down the front, stained, and hooked on awry; a torn flounce at the bottom following her like a snake as she moved languidly about, with her hair negligently caught up, and a tangled wisp straggling untidily down her back.

His gaze travelled upwards from bow to bow, noticing those that hung only by a thread, but it did not go beyond her chin.

He looked at her lean throat, at the obtrusive collarbone visible in the disarray of the upper part of her attire.