“Why do you hate me again, my love?” He seemed to brighten, feeding upon the intensity of her emotion. Her mouth was worthy of her face; with small, pearly-white teeth; lips glossy, rosy, and pouting; and the sweetest smile imaginable, playing constantly about them. His clothes were smartly pressed, his linen white, his jaws cleanly shaven; but the day would come when he would grow indifferent to bodily cleanliness. “Because I hate you!” She spat. Observing Spurlock's spellbound attitude, he clapped the boy on the shoulder. And turning again, as if the emotions she had churned up kept her on the move, she paced back to the mantel and there stopped, staring at her own reflection in the tarnished mirror. "But, perhaps, he has not got beyond the room above.
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