Berthe Morisot paintings

The lodger and me came in together last night," he observed genially. "He's certainly a funny kind of gentleman. It wasn't the sort of night one would have chosen to go out for a walk, now was it? And yet he must'a been out a long time if what he said was true."
"I don't wonder a quiet gentleman like Mr. Sleuth hates the crowded streets," she said slowly. "They gets worse every day - that they do! But go along now; I want to get up."
He went back into their sitting-room, and, having laid the fire and put a match to it, he sat down comfortably with his newspaper.
Deep down in his heart Bunting looked back to this last night with a feeling of shame and self-rebuke. Whatever had made such horrible thoughts and suspicions as had possessed him suddenly come into his head? And just because of a trifling thing like that blood. No doubt Mr. Sleuth's nose had bled - that was what had happened; though, come to think of it, he had mentioned brushing up against a dead animal.