See paragraph 1. “Well,” she said. ‘Cajolery? This is not your style. Turning off again on the left, down Seacoal Lane, they arrived at the mouth of a dark, narrow alley, into which they plunged; and, at the farther extremity found a small yard, overlooked by the blank walls of a large gloomy habitation. ‘Your wife?’ ‘My wife,’ he repeated, rising also, his smile mocking her. Strange, demure-looking young woman, with wonderful complexion and eyes, and a style about her, too. ‘No, no, Jacques, you have done very right.
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