Upstairs, a long garret served as laboratory, and here were ranged less valuable possessions; weapons to which some doubt attached, unbloody scraps of accoutrements, also a few models of cannon and the like.
In society, Hannaford was an entertaining, sometimes a charming, man, with a flow of well-informed talk, of agreeable anecdote; his friends liked to have him at the dinner-table; he could never be at a loss for a day or two's board and lodging when his home wearied him.

Under his own roof he seldom spoke save to find fault, rarely showed anything but acrid countenance.

He and his wife were completely alienated; but for their child, they would long ago have parted.

It had been a love match, and the daughter's name, Olga, still testified to the romance of their honeymoon; but that was nearly twenty years gone by, and of these at least fifteen had been spent in discord, concealed or flagrant.

Mrs.
Hannaford was something of an artist; her husband spoke of all art with contempt--except the great art of human slaughter.