Fitzpiers had had a marvellous escape from being dragged into the inquiry which followed it, through the accident of their having parted just before under the influence of Marty South's letter--the tiny instrument of a cause deep in nature.
Her body was not brought home.

It seemed to accord well with the fitful fever of that impassioned woman's life that she should not have found a native grave.

She had enjoyed but a life-interest in the estate, which, after her death, passed to a relative of her husband's--one who knew not Felice, one whose purpose seemed to be to blot out every vestige of her.
On a certain day in February--the cheerful day of St.Valentine, in fact--a letter reached Mrs.Fitzpiers, which had been mentally promised her for that particular day a long time before.
It announced that Fitzpiers was living at some midland town, where he had obtained a temporary practice as assistant to some local medical man, whose curative principles were all wrong, though he dared not set them right.

He had thought fit to communicate with her on that day of tender traditions to inquire if, in the event of his obtaining a substantial practice that he had in view elsewhere, she could forget the past and bring herself to join him.
There the practical part ended; he then went on-- "My last year of experience has added ten years to my age, dear Grace and dearest wife that ever erring man undervalued.

You may be absolutely indifferent to what I say, but let me say it: I have never loved any woman alive or dead as I love, respect, and honor you at this present moment.