The comparisons upon which she could draw were few and confusingly new, mixed with reality and the loose artistic conceptions of heroes in fiction. To her mind, recalling the picture of him the night before, there had been something tragic in the grim silent manner of his tippling. But it sounds too real to be imagined. He entered it; crossed the room, in which there was only a small truckle-bed, over which he stumbled; opened another door and gained the stair-head. She felt a little ashamed of herself, a bit of a hypocrite. She wondered why he was so distinctive, so unlike other men, and it never occurred to her for some time that this might be because she was falling in love with him. We must wash out those stains up stairs, and burn the cloth. "And now, widow," he continued, "attend to the next verse, for it consarns a friend o' yours.
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