Don't you make any mistake about it: if you will have it that I killed the boy, then you've killed him as much as I." In sincerity of feeling and openness of statement, these words went far beyond anything that had ever been said in this home, kept up on the wages of a secret industry eked out by the sale of more or less secret wares: the poor expedients devised by a mediocre mankind for preserving an imperfect society from the dangers of moral and physical corruption, both secret too of their kind.

They were spoken because Mr Verloc had felt himself really outraged; but the reticent decencies of this home life, nestling in a shady street behind a shop where the sun never shone, remained apparently undisturbed.

Mrs Verloc heard him out with perfect propriety, and then rose from her chair in her hat and jacket like a visitor at the end of a call.

She advanced towards her husband, one arm extended as if for a silent leave-taking.

Her net veil dangling down by one end on the left side of her face gave an air of disorderly formality to her restrained movements.