He was tall, thin, and wasted, with a slight stoop in the shoulders, a pale face, but somewhat blotchy, and disagreeably red about the eyelids, plain features, and a general appearance of languor and flatness, relieved by a sinister expression in the mouth and the dull, soulless eyes.
'I detest that man!' whispered Lady Ashby, with bitter emphasis, as he slowly trotted by.
'Who is it ?' I asked, unwilling to suppose that she should so speak of her husband.
'Sir Thomas Ashby,' she replied, with dreary composure.
'And do you _detest_ him, Miss Murray ?' said I, for I was too much shocked to remember her name at the moment.
'Yes, I do, Miss Grey, and despise him too; and if you knew him you would not blame me.' 'But you knew what he was before you married him.' 'No; I only thought so: I did not half know him really.

I know you warned me against it, and I wish I had listened to you: but it's too late to regret that now.

And besides, mamma ought to have known better than either of us, and she never said anything against it--quite the contrary.
And then I thought he adored me, and would let me have my own way: he did pretend to do so at first, but now he does not care a bit about me.

Yet I should not care for that: he might do as he pleased, if I might only be free to amuse myself and to stay in London, or have a few friends down here: but _he will_ do as he pleases, and I must be a prisoner and a slave.

The moment he saw I could enjoy myself without him, and that others knew my value better than himself, the selfish wretch began to accuse me of coquetry and extravagance; and to abuse Harry Meltham, whose shoes he was not worthy to clean.