"Why not of him, who did not hesitate to marry the woman whom he knew loved another, and whom the difference of years should rather have made his daughter than his wife?
Why not of him, who brutally confessed, when she was his wife, an earlier and truer love of his own, and so murdered her slowly, slowly--not with blows of the hand, oh no!--not with poison in her food, oh no!" cried Lawrence Newt, warming into bitter vehemence, clenching his hand and shaking it in the air, "but who struck her blows on the heart--who stabbed her with sharp icicles of indifference--who poisoned her soul with the tauntings of his mean suspicions--mean and false--and the meaner because he knew them to be false?
Why not of him, who--" "Stop! in the name of God!" she cried, fiercely, raising her hand as if she appealed to Heaven.
It fell again.

The hard voice sank to a tremulous, pitiful tone: "Oh! stop, if you, are a man!" They stood opposite each other in utter silence.

The light had almost faded.

The face in the picture was no longer visible.
Bewildered and awed by the passionate grief of his companion, Lawrence Newt said, gently, "Why should I stop ?" The form before him had sunk into a chair.

Both its hands were clasped over the miniature.