What sort of a standard of life yours may be I do not know, yet in your heart you know very well that every word you have spoken to me has been a veiled insult, every time you have come into my presence has been an outrage. This was automatically rather than thoughtfully done; habit. Now lend me your own hand. “I did it for love of you,” he said. The man’s statement was explicit, and spoken with confidence. A little within stood a second door, or rather wicket, lower than the first, but of equal strength, and surmounted by a row of sharp spikes. If he laid his own suspicions boldly before the girl, and in the end the boy came clean, he would always be haunted by the witless cruelty of the act. This was his humiliation as well as hers.
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