There was not a glance with which they followed the weak little body in its poor dress that he had not seen, and savagely resented.

They measured her strength?
counted how long the bones and blood would last in their House of Refuge?
There was not a morsel of her flesh that was not pure and holy in his eyes.

His Margret?
He chafed with an intolerable fever to make her his, but for one instant, as she had been once.

Now, when it was too late.

For he went back over every word he had spoken that night, forcing himself to go through with it,--every cold, poisoned word.