She hesitated in answering the door, her violin still crooked underneath her chin. “Let go!” she gasped at him, a blaze of anger. She disengaged her hands and stood up. ‘I know that, miss. Notwithstanding her emaciation, her features still retained something of a pleasing expression, and might have been termed beautiful, had it not been for that repulsive freshness of lip denoting the habitual dram-drinker; a freshness in her case rendered the more shocking from the almost livid hue of the rest of her complexion. Besides, she had admitted her identity.
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