It was painted in the early seventeenth century by a minor artist named DuPre. When I realized that she was a liar and a mean bitch I broke it off with her for good. At this time of universal havoc and despair,—when all London quaked at the voice of the storm,—the carpenter, who was exposed to its utmost fury, fared better than might have been anticipated. I’ve told them all that was necessary, but I— wanted to ask your pardon—for having made myself a nuisance to you, and for breaking into your rooms—and to thank you—the doctor says you bound up my wound—or I should have bled to death. I spent many happy days there. Here and there, patches of flesh adhered to the bones, and the dank dripping hair hanging about what had once been the face, gave it a ghastly appearance. But whatever she may have said was lost as Gerald pinned her to the wall, the point of the sword at her throat.
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