Sometimes he would hardly kiss her at parting; he sat on his chair, with his great head drooped forward over his red hands, lost in a kind of animal lethargy.

Westall's name always roused him.

Hate still survived.

But it made _her_ life faint within her to talk of the murdered man--wherein she showed her lack of the usual peasant's realism and curiosity in the presence of facts of blood and violence.
When she was told it was time for her to go, and the heavy door was locked behind her, the poor creature, terrified at the warder and the bare prison silences, would hurry away as though the heavy hand of this awful Justice were laid upon her too, torn by the thought of him she left behind, and by the remembrance that he had only kissed her once, and yet impelled by mere physical instinct towards the relief of Ann Mullins's rough face waiting for her--of the outer air and the free heaven.
As for Willie, he was fast dwindling.

Another week or two--the doctor said--no more.