"That's fine," said O'Higgins. This time, there was no doubt, she did not sleep. "Don't look at it, I entreat," she cried. Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. Supposing she saw the young man at dinner that night, emptying his bottle? She could not go to him, sit down and draw the sordid pictures she had seen so often. “To the young man himself,” he answered, “no! I simply object to his calling here two or three times a week during my absence.
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