He touched her hand, soft and cool to his fingers—she turned at once to look at him. Pottiswick had mentioned muttering. Notwithstanding her emaciation, her features still retained something of a pleasing expression, and might have been termed beautiful, had it not been for that repulsive freshness of lip denoting the habitual dram-drinker; a freshness in her case rendered the more shocking from the almost livid hue of the rest of her complexion. ‘I would read your body,’ he whispered, and lifted her fingers to his lips. He hung vaguely for a moment as she passed.
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