The fact itself is regrettable enough—regrettable, I fear, is quite an inadequate word. She was finally dead, going to Hell. I’m glad the old sore is assuaged. ’ The lady looked unexpectedly smug. "What is it?" "Can't you see? Together, down there; you and I!… As my wife! Both of us, never to be lonely again!… Will you marry me, Ruth?" As many a wiser woman had done, Ruth mistook thrilling eagerness for love. He had the same dark eyes, though lighted by a fierce flame; the same sallow complexion; the same tall, thin figure, and majestic demeanour; the same proud cast of features. And I have no more the pistol.
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