"Not as I loved mine. "Had I not been the guilty wretch I am," he cried, bursting into an agony of tears, "she would never have died thus. But calmer thoughts quickly succeeded. “Do you mind very much?” He shook his head. “Don’t you know, child, that this is torture for me? What in God’s name more can you have to tell me?” Her face had become almost like a marble image. “No!” he said aloud at last. A door slammed. It was precious for two reasons: it was the photograph of her beautiful mother whom she could not remember, and it would identify her to the aunt in Hartford.
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