To have written a short story in a week was rather a remarkable feat. Wood was unable to discover the figure of the widow, but he recognised her dry, hacking cough, and was about to call her down, if she could not find the key, as he imagined must be the case, when a loud noise was heard, as though a chest, or some weighty substance, had fallen upon the floor. He drew a little breath of relief. "There's Sharples," cried Quilt. That would be myself, or if she lived, Mary’s daughter. Only I wish—I wish to-day I was a thousand times, ten thousand times more beautiful. It was in no sense confessional; it was a state of mind in the patient the doctor had already anticipated. It was the moment for smiles.
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