She was a very pretty woman, tall and dark, with almost a Spanish cast of countenance.
"What brings you here to-day, Mrs. Crosswell?" I asked.
She sat down wearily. "I hardly know how to begin, Doctor," she replied; "but look here," and pulling up her sleeve, she showed me on her beautiful, round, white arm, two greenish-black discolorations—evidently bruises.
I started. "How on earth did you get hurt like that?"
"My husband's mark," she said.
"What? Mr. Crosswell did that? By accident."
"Done by intention, and with his fist. But this is nothing; see here," and tearing open the lace on her chest, she showed me just below the throat another mark more recent, more severe, and more extensive.
"He is brutal, and I cannot live with him any longer," she cried. "Not only does he strike me and hurt me in every way, but he suspects me of being untrue to him."
She sank back in the chair, her white, uncovered chest heaving, and tears starting to flow down her cheeks.
At this moment I heard an altercation outside my door, and the next moment in burst
