‘You had already been through everything,’ said Wilde. ‘Why must you torture us like this? My wife has nothing—nothing to conceal. How could she have killed [xxx](show spoiler)
, and in that way? She has a horror of knives, an inhibition against them. Everyone knows that she can’t touch a knife or a blade of any sort. Why, even on the night of this crime—Bathgate, you remember!—she got into a fever at the very sight of that filthy dagger. It’s impossible, I tell you, it’s impossible!’
Well, that is a terrible affliction. I mean, how does she butter her toast?