There was a round table covered, not with the usual “tapestry” cover, but with a plain green cloth that went passably with the wall-paper. She was not squeamish—although the sight of the sergeant’s ominous preparations had severely tried her fortitude—but Kimble’s white face plagued her conscience. Her aunt, a faded, anæmic-looking lady of somewhat too obtrusive gentility, was still sitting with her hand pressed to her heart. I, too, want to understand—to walk with my head in the light. Why should you wish to forget it? Unless it is that you did not enjoy it.
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