THE EVIL THAT MEN DO—
Harold breathed magnanimously over the mirror.
"Harold," she said "you are wonderful. Just what I wanted. . . ."
"You can take it out shopping to-morrow morning, down the High Street."
She shut the bag with a click, brushed away the marks of her finger-tips, and swung it by the straps from her wrist, watching it through half-closed eyes.
"Harold," she sighed ineffably.
They kissed.
"Shall I post your letters?" he inquired.
She glanced towards the writing-table. "Would you wait a moment? Just a moment; there's an address I must write, and a postscript."
"My little wee wife," said Harold contentedly.
"P.P.S.," she added. "You must not think that I do not love my husband. There are moments when he touches very closely my exterior life."
She and Harold and the handbag went as far as the post together, and she watched
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