nd glared in her head; and her husband looked so
insanely wicked, that, as the pale picture darkened before her, and she
heard curse after curse, and one foul name after another hiss off his
tongue, like water off a hot iron, in her singing ears, she gave herself
up for lost. He closed this exercise by chucking her head viciously
against the board of the bed half-a-dozen times, and leaving her
thereafter a good deal more confused even than on the eventful evening
when he had first declared his love.

So soon as she came a little to herself, and saw him coolly buttoning
his leggings at the bedside, his buckles being adjusted by this time,
her fear subsided, or rather her just indignation rose above it, and
drowned it; and she was on the point of breaking out afresh, only in a
way commensurate with her wrongs, and proportionately more formidable;
when, on the first symptom of attack, he clutched her, if possible,
tighter, the gaping, goggling, purpling, the darkening of vision and
humming in ears, all recommenced; likewise the knocking of her head with
improved good-will, and, spite of her struggles and scratching, the
bewildered lady, unused to even a show of insurrection, underwent the
same horrid series of sensations at the hands of her rebellious lord.

When they had both had enough of it, Mr. Irons went on with his
buttoning, and his lady gradually came to. This time, however, she was
effectually frightened--too much so even to resort to hysterics, for she
was not quite sure that when he had buttoned the last button of his left
legging he might not resume operations, and terminate their conjugal
relations.

Therefore, being all of a tremble, with her hands clasped, and too much
terrified to cry, she besought Irons, whose bodily strength surprised
her, for her life, and his pale, malign glance, askew over his shoulder,
held her with a sort of a spell that was quite new to her--in fact, she
had never respected Irons so before.

When he had adjusted his leggings, he stood lithe and erect at the
bedside, and with his fist at her face, delivered a short charge, the
point of which was, that unless she lay like a mouse till morning he'd
have her life, though he hanged for it. And with that he drew the
curtain, and was hidden from her sight for some time.

CHAPTER LXX.

IN WHICH AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR IS SEEN. IN THE CEDAR-PARLOUR OF THE
TILED HOUSE, AND THE STORY OF MR. BEAUCLERC AND THE 'FLOWER DE LUCE'
BEGINS