Then in his love and despair he formed a desperate resolve.

Yes, he was very strong, and he thought that he could do it.
Catching her suddenly round the waist he thrust her into a cottage armchair which stood by, and, despite her struggles, began to cut at the sleeve of her dress with the lancet in his hand.

But soon he realised that the task was hopeless.
"Ernest Merchison," she said, as she escaped from him with blazing eyes and catching breath, "you have done what I will never forgive.

Go your own way in life and I will go mine." "-- --To _death_, Jane." Then she walked out of the house and through the garden gate.

When she had gone ten or fifteen yards she looked back to see her lover standing by the gate, his face buried in his hands, and his strong frame shaking with sobs.