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His quiet, kindly smile implied his serene disbelief in any confessible thing. It was not an affair of the conscience; it was vaguely based upon insolence and defiance. From head to foot he was attired in the fashionable garb of the young man of the moment. Some day I may forgive you; but not now. His countenance was almost as white and rigid as that of the corpse by his side. No breakfast, he’s had no dinner, hardly a mouthful of soup— since yesterday at tea. But I am not worthy to be any man's wife —far less his wife.
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