A conjecture of horror smote Paul.

He made a step forward and stretched out his hand; but not before she had instinctively glanced first at the writing and then at his barren waistcoat.

She repressed a slight gasp, regarding him with steady, searching eyes.
His dark face flushed crimson as he took the accursed thing, desiring no greater boon from Heaven than instant death.

He felt sick with humiliation.

The brightly lit room grew black.