How he had obtained either the plantation or the money
did not seem to have made itself understood. No doubt,
as his manner indicated when she ventured her enquiries,
it was quite irrelevant to the narrative.

In Mexico, his experience had been unique, apparently, in that
no villain had appeared on the scene to frustrate his plans.
He at least mentioned no one who had wronged him there.
When he came to London, however, there were villains
and to spare. He moved to the mantel, when he arrived
at this stage of the story, and made clear a space for his
elbow to rest among the little trinkets and photographs
with which it was burdened. He stood still thereafter,
looking down at her; his voice took on a harsher note.

Much of this story, also, she knew by heart. This strange,
bearded, greyish-haired brother of hers had come very often
during the past half-year to the little book-shop, and the
widow's home above it, his misshapen handbag full of papers,
his heart full of rage, hope, grief, ambition, disgust,
confidence--everything but despair. It was true,
it had never been quite real to her. He was right in his
suggestion that she had never wholly believed in him.
She had not been able to take altogether seriously
this clumsy, careworn, shabbily-dressed man who talked
about millions. It was true that he had sent her four
hundred pounds for the education of her son and daughter;
it was equally true that he had brought with him to London
a sum which any of his ancestors, so far as she knew
about them, would have deemed a fortune, and which he