The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill. ‘She? Sa femme? That is the game then? That she could dare to take my place, that salope. On this side was a razor with which a son had murdered his father; the blade notched, the haft crusted with blood: on that, a bar of iron, bent, and partly broken, with which a husband had beaten out his wife's brains. “But why,” he said in the gasping voice of one subduing an agony, and looked at her from under a pain-wrinkled brow, “why did you not tell me this before?” “I didn’t know—I thought I might be able to control myself. She fell with a plop onto her rear end in the mud and sat dumbly like a statue, water eddying around her. "In the first place, she had no knowledge of her birth; and, consequently, no false pride to get rid of. ‘Beg pardon, sir?’ asked the sergeant, evidently mystified. It was a moment or two before Gerald realised that he could feel the fluttering of her pulse beneath the light touch he had on her wrist, and that her fingers were trembling in his.
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