nt of some such man as Bozzle?
He had also employed a gentleman, his friend, Stanbury; and what was
the result? The facts were not altered. Even Stanbury did not attempt
to deny that there had been a correspondence, and that there had been
a visit. But Stanbury was so blind to all impropriety, or pretended
such blindness, that he defended that which all the world agreed
in condemning. Of what use had Stanbury been to him? He had wanted
facts, not advice. Stanbury had found out no facts for him; but
Bozzle, either by fair means or foul, did get at the truth. He did
not doubt but that Bozzle was right about that letter written only
yesterday, and received on that very morning. His wife, who had
probably been complaining of her wrongs to Stanbury, must have
retired from that conversation to her chamber, and immediately have
written this letter to her lover! With such a woman as that what can
be done in these days otherwise than by the aid of such a one as
Bozzle? He could not confine his wife in a dungeon. He could not
save himself from the disgrace of her misconduct, by any rigours of
surveillance on his own part. As wives are managed now-a-days, he
could not forbid to her the use of the post-office,--could not hinder
her from seeing this hypocritical scoundrel, who carried on his
wickedness under the false guise of family friendship. He had given
her every chance to amend her conduct: but, if she were resolved
on disobedience, he had no means of enforcing obedience. The facts,
however, it was necessary that he should know.

And now, what should he do? How should he go to work to make her
understand that she could not write even a letter without his knowing
it; and that if she did either write to the man or see him he would
immediately take the child from her, and provide for her only in such
fashion as the law should demand from him? For himself, and for his
own life, he thought that he had determined what he would do. It was
impossible that he should continue to live in London. He was ashamed
to enter a club. He had hardly a friend to whom it was not an agony
to speak. They who knew him, knew also of his disgrace, and no longer
asked him to their houses. For days past he had eaten alone, and sat
alone, and walked alone. All study was impossible to him. No pursuit
was open to him. He spent his time in thinking of his wife, and of
the disgrace which she had brought upon him. Such a life as this, he
knew, was unmanly and