She rambles continually about Jack, and her husband, and that wretch Jonathan, to whom, as far as can be gathered from her wild ravings, she attributes all her misery. An old man and a young girl, the one as stubbornly offensive as the other. “We are clerks in the same bank. She had tried him as a Crusader, in which guise he seemed plausible but heavy—“There IS something heavy about him; I wonder if it’s his mustache?”—and as a Hussar, which made him preposterous, and as a Black Brunswicker, which was better, and as an Arab sheik. Time enough to do so when she has her affairs settled—if she can settle them. The ladder was now within reach. "Despatch him!" roared Jonathan.
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