Into this he didn't enter minutely, and he didn't blame her for having so big a menage; he only said he was sorry that he hadn't been able to support it without having to come, even for a day, to the stupidity of stealing.

After two years he escaped.

He asked me to write a letter to his wife, which he'd dictate.

Marmion, you or I couldn't have dictated that letter if we'd taken a year to do it.

There was no religion in it, no poppy-cock, but straightforward talk, full of sorrow for what he'd done, and for the disgrace he'd brought on her.
I remember the last few sentences as if I'd seen them yesterday.