"But pray tell me if her husband has escaped?" "Her husband!" echoed Jonathan scornfully. Beyond the steps was a pole-chair in readiness. “I repeat, gentlemen,” he said, in an ominously low tone, “what of it?” Drummond shrugged his shoulders. “I’m a vampire. The honey on his tongue turned to ashes. She was dressed in a tattered black stuff gown, discoloured by various stains, and intended, it would seem, from the remnants of rusty crape with which it was here and there tricked out, to represent the garb of widowhood, and held in her arms a sleeping infant, swathed in the folds of a linsey-woolsey shawl. All men are bloody fucking hypocrites.
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