The reddened light, falling on her up-springing almost coppery locks, seemed to the man's excited fancy a crown, of thorns, crimsoned with blood, and there was, oddly enough, a cross in the window.
The thought of another vicarious sacrifice awed him.

Must this be one, too?
"Mistakes, dear, are not crimes.

Can you not understand?
I have been mistaken, have suffered, have atoned for my error.

Is that enough ?" "But," she said, and her voice seemed to have suddenly grown old and thin, "you have no right to talk of mistakes.

She is your wife." "The biretta, that ends all, again! No, not so.