Accordingly, when she arrived at the Shovels, with which, as an old haunt in her bygone days of wretchedness she was well acquainted, instead of entering the principal apartment, which she saw at a glance was crowded with company of both sexes, she turned into a small room on the left of the bar, and, as an excuse for so doing, called for something to drink. You are not my husband. She got up, drew up her blind, and stared out of window at a dawn-cold vision of chimneys for a time, and then went and sat on the edge of her bed. She brought her hands up to her head and ripped out two long chunks of her hair, pulling out shreds of scalp. She closed her eyes and felt again an echo of the swamping warmth that had attacked her when his lips met hers.
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