The girl was like some north-country woodland pool, penetrated by a single shaft of sunlight—beautifully clear in one spot and mysteriously obscured elsewhere. She had no place she loved. My wife—killed me. “I wonder,” she murmured to herself, “if this is the beginning. ” He passed his hand wearily over his forehead. ” John looked at her sympathetically. If only there had not been this single torturing thought—a mere pin-prick, but still curiously persistent. "Had I not been the guilty wretch I am," he cried, bursting into an agony of tears, "she would never have died thus. " "Oh, God!" cried Jack, "she does not know me.
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