“We may just as well have our talk afterwards,” she said, “and I need not keep poor Mr. " "Poor soul!—poor soul!" groaned Wood, brushing the tears from his vision. Still—” Then, with incredible and obviously deliberate stupidity, and a voice as flat as her own, he asked, “Who is the man?” Her spirit raged within her at the dumbness, the paralysis that had fallen upon her. Piercing through every crevice in the clothes, it, in some cases, tore them from the wearer's limbs, or from his grasp. ‘That is what she wants, is it?’ ‘Do you blame her?’ he said stiffly.
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