"But as to how he took it," March went on to answer his wife's question about Dryfoos--"how do any of us take a thing that hurts?
Some of us cry out, and some of us don't.
Dryfoos drew a kind of long, quivering breath, as a child does when it grieves--there's something curiously simple and primitive about him--and didn't say anything.

After a while he asked me how he could see the people at the hospital about the remains; I gave him my card to the young doctor there that had charge of Lindau.

I suppose he was still carrying forward his plan of reparation in his mind--to the dead for the dead.

But how useless! If he could have taken the living Lindau home with him, and cared for him all his days, what would it have profited the gentle creature whose life his worldly ambition vexed and thwarted here?
He might as well offer a sacrifice at Conrad's grave.

Children," said March, turning to them, "death is an exile that no remorse and no love can reach.