It had been wonderfully comfortable in the evening
in the sitting room with Lettice sewing. He
recalled the time when he had first played the phonograph
in order to hear the dog "sing." Lettice had
cried out, imploring him to stop; well -- he had
stopped, hadn't he? The delayed realization of her
patience of misery rankled like a barb. The wandering
thoughts returned to the long fabrication he
had told her of the loss of his money in Stenton,
of the fictitious agent of hardware. He had snared
the girl in a net of such lies; scornful of Lettice's
innocence, her "stupid" trust, he had brought her to
this ruinous pass. It hadn't been necessary.

The window was open, and a breath of early summer
drifted in -- a breath of palpable sweetness.
Mrs. Caley entered and bent over the bed, an angular,
black silhouette against the white. She left
without a word.

If Lettice died he, Gordon Makimmon, would
have killed her, he had killed more... he recognized
that clearly. The knowledge spread through
him like a virus, thinning his blood, attacking his
brain, his nerves. He lifted a shaking hand to wipe
his brow; and, for a brief space, his arm remained in
air; it looked as though he were gazing beneath a
shielding palm at a far prospect. The arm dropped
suddenly to his side, the fingers struck dully against
the chair. He heard again the muffled beat of

[[271]]

p270 _ -chap- _ toc-1 _ p271w _ toc-2 _ +chap+ _ p272

v?