Pagina 487 de 490

At least he thought so. But who could tell? ... No. There had

been nothing more. Through vanity he had spared her. In hypocrisy

he had worn the mask of goodness. For curiosity's sake he had

tried the denial of self. He recognized that now.

But this murder-was it to dog him all his life? Was he always to

be burdened by his past? Was he really to confess? Never. There

was only one bit of evidence left against him. The picture

itself-that was evidence. He would destroy it. Why had he kept it

so long? Once it had given him pleasure to watch it changing and

growing old. Of late he had felt no such pleasure. It had kept

him awake at night. When he had been away, he had been filled

with terror lest other eyes should look upon it. It had brought

melancholy across his passions. Its mere memory had marred many

moments of joy. It had been like conscience to him. Yes, it had

been conscience. He would destroy it.