Eustace had briefly told me, in the days of our courtship, that he had more than once fancied himself to be in love before he met with me.

Could this very unattractive woman have been one of the early objects of his admiration?
Had she been near enough and dear enough to him to be photographed with her hand in his?
I looked and looked at the portraits until I could endure them no longer.
Women are strange creatures--mysteries even to themselves.

I threw the photograph from me into a corner of the cupboard.

I was savagely angry with my husband; I hated--yes, hated with all my heart and soul!--the woman who had got his hand in hers--the unknown woman with the self-willed, hard-featured face.
All this time the lower shelf of the cupboard was still waiting to be looked over.
I knelt down to examine it, eager to clear my mind, if I could, of the degrading jealousy that had got possession of me.
Unfortunately, the lower shelf contained nothing but relics of the Major's military life, comprising his sword and pistols, his epaulets, his sash, and other minor accouterments.

None of these objects excited the slightest interest in me.