My feelings when I reached my room that night were not to be envied.

I was as firmly convinced of the identity of the woman as I was of the shining of the sun.

There could not be any mistake; I had seen her face quite plainly in the moonlight, and it had been too deeply impressed on my mind for me to forget it, or to mistake it for another.

Indeed, the horror of the discovery was still upon me; my nerves were trembling; my blood was cold.

How could it be that my old friend Lance had made so terrible a mistake?
How could I bear to know that the wife whom he worshiped was a murderess?
What else she had been, I did not care even to think; whose child it was, or why she had drowned it, I could not, dare not think.
I could not sleep or rest; my mind and brain were at variance with themselves.