The memory of that will pass." "The memory of what I have gone through will never pass," she answered.
There was a moment's intense silence, a silence pregnant with reminiscent drama.

The little room rose up before his memory--the woman's hopeless, hating eyes, the quivering thread of steel, the dead man's mocking words.

He seemed at that moment to see into the recesses of her mind.

Was it remorse that troubled her, he wondered?
Did she lack strength to realise that in that half-hour at the inquest he had placed on record for ever his judgment of her deed?
Even to think of it now was morbid.

Although he would never have confessed it even to himself, there was growing daily in his mind some idea of reward.