Once Margaret Craven said: "One of the most astonishing things about anything of this kind seems to me the bravery of the murderer--the bravery I mean that is demanded of any one during the days between the crime and his arrest.
To be in possession of that tremendous secret, to be at war, as it were, with the world, and yet to lead, in all probability, an ordinary life--that demands courage." "One may accustom oneself to anything," Mrs.Craven said.

Her voice was deep and musical, and her words seemed to linger almost like an echo in the air.
Olva thought as he looked at Margaret Craven that there was a strength there that could face anything; it was more than courage; it might, under certain circumstances, become fanaticism.

But he knew that whereas Mrs.Craven stirred in him a deep restlessness and disquiet, Margaret Craven quieted and soothed him, almost, it seemed, deliberately, as though she knew that he was in trouble.
He said: "I should think that his worst enemy, if he have any imagination at all, must be his loneliness.

I can conceive that the burden of the secret, even though there be no chance whatever of discovery, must make that loneliness intolerable." Here Rupert Craven interrupted as though he were longing to break away from the subject.
"You played the finest game of your life this afternoon, Dune.

I never saw anything like that last try of yours.