She told me the tale the other night, and I've only elaborated it. She practiced swaddling on a doll, pretending to pat the head of her imaginary infant boy. ‘Why do you think I told you about the portrait? I’d not seen it, of course, but I’d seen Miss Mary just before she got married, which is when it was painted. This did not tickle his vanity; on the contrary, it enlivened his terror, which is a phase of fascination. “I will put the question,” Drummond said gravely. “The one who used to live at Lyndmore. She succumbed to cancer of the breast at age forty-three, it was slow and wasting. Got you interested in something, then? Would you like a peg?" "No. She was perhaps three-and-twenty, and very pink and healthy-looking, showing a great deal of white and rounded neck above her business-like but altogether feminine blouse, and a good deal of plump, gesticulating forearm out of her short sleeve.
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