The next page was a drawing that she had made in pen and ink of his face, or what she had remembered of it. Why? Because Howard Spurlock the author dared not risk the liberty of Howard Spurlock the malefactor; because there were still some dregs in this cup of irony. Mr. I don’t love you. The great gray boles of the palms reminded him of some fabulous Grecian temple. My wife doesn’t understand, doesn’t understand now. Planting his knee against her side, he pulled her towards him with one hand, while with the other he sought his knife. I was standing near Jack at that awful moment, and beheld the look Wild fixed on him. The boy she had loved was gone. The latch came with a weak click.
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