With Pharisaic delicacy, Shelton refrained from looking.

But presently Ferrand came back; the lady rose and left the restaurant; she had been crying.

The young foreigner was flushed, his face contorted; he did not touch his wine.
"I was right," he said; "she is the wife of an old friend.

I used to know her well." He was suffering from emotion, but someone less absorbed than Shelton might have noticed a kind of relish in his voice, as though he were savouring life's dishes, and glad to have something new, and spiced with tragic sauce, to set before his patron.
"You can find her story by the hundred in your streets, but nothing hinders these paragons of virtue"-- he nodded at the stream of carriages--"from turning up their eyes when they see ladies of her sort pass.

She came to London--just three years ago.