W. W. Jacobs

“ Wotton, pathetically.
"And now I've come back," resumed Mr. Davis; "come back to stop."
He hung his cap on a vase on the mantelpiece that reeled under the shock, and, dropping into his chair again, crossed his legs and eyed her sternly. Her gaze was riveted on his dilapidated boots. She looked up and spoke mildly.
"You're not my husband," she said. "You've made a mistake—I think you had better go."
"Ho!" said Mr. Davis, with a hard laugh. "Indeed! And 'ow do you know I'm not?"
"For the best of reasons," was the reply. "Besides, how can you prove that you are? Thirty-five years is a long time." ”

“ Wotton smiled feebly, and after going carefully through his pockets shook his head and followed his friend outside.
"I wonder whether she'll be pleased?" he remarked, as they walked slowly along. "She might be—women are funny creatures—so faithful. I knew one whose husband used to knock 'er about dreadful, and after he died she was so true to his memory she wouldn't marry again."
Mr. Davis grunted, and, with a longing eye at the omnibuses passing over London Bridge, asked a policeman the distance to Clapham. ”

“ Mr. Wotton shook his head and his face fell, clearing somewhat as the other handed him his mug. "Drink it all up, George," he said.
His friend complied. A more tactful man might have taken longer over the job, but Mr. Benjamin Davis, who appeared to be labouring under some strong excitement, took no notice.
"I've had a shock, George," he said, regarding the other steadily. "I've heard news of my old woman."
"Didn't know you 'ad one," said Mr. Wotton calmly. "Wot's she done?"
"She left me," said Mr. Davis, solemnly—"she left me thirty-five years ago. ”