Every unusual look or dubious word thrilled her with a sense of danger.

Suspicion is the baleful instinct of self-preservation with which the devil gifts his children; and hers never slept.
'_What_ doctor ?' said Mrs.Matchwell, turning her large, dismal, wicked gaze full on Mrs.Mack.
'Doctor Toole, Ma'am.' She dared not tell a literal lie to that piercing, prominent pair of black eyes.
'And why did you send for Doctor O'Toole, Ma'am ?' 'I did not send for the doctor,' answered the fat lady, looking down, for she could not stand that glance that seemed to light up all the caverns of her poor soul, and make her lies stand forth self-confessed.
'I did not send for him, Ma'am, only for some drops he promised me.

I've been very sick--I--I--I'm so miserable.' And poor Mrs.Mack's nether lip quivered, and she burst into tears.
'You're enough to provoke a saint, Mrs.Macnamara,' said the woman in black, rather savagely, though coldly enough.

'Why you're on the point of fortune, as it seems to me.' Here poor Mrs.Mack's inarticulate lamentations waxed more vehement.

'You don't believe it--very well--but where's the use of crying over your little difficulties, Ma'am, like a great baby, instead of exerting yourself and thanking your best friend ?' And the two ladies sat down to a murmuring _tete-a-tete_ at the far end of the room; you could have heard little more than an inarticulate cooing, and poor Mrs.Mack's sobs, and the stern-- 'And is that all?
I've had more trouble with you than with fifty reasonable clients--you can hardly be serious--I tell you plainly, you must manage matters better, my good Madam; for, frankly, Ma'am, _this_ won't do.' With which that part of the conference closed, and Mary Matchwell looked out of the window.