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But the louder he spoke, the lower she dropped her once proud and

gay, now shame-stricken head, and she bowed down and sank from

the sofa where she was sitting, down on the floor, at his feet;

she would have fallen on the carpet if he had not held her.

"My God! Forgive me!" she said, sobbing, pressing his hands to

her bosom.

She felt so sinful, so guilty, that nothing was left her but to

humiliate herself and beg forgiveness; and as now there was no

one in her life but him, to him she addressed her prayer for

forgiveness. Looking at him, she had a physical sense of her

humiliation, and she could say nothing more. He felt what a

murderer must feel, when he sees the body he has robbed of life.

That body, robbed by him of life, was their love, the first stage

of their love. There was something awful and revolting in the

memory of what had been bought at this fearful price of shame.

Shame at their spiritual nakedness crushed her and infected him.

But in spite of all the murderer's horror before the body of his

victim, he must hack it to pieces, hide the body, must use what

he has gained by his murder.