It was a sad catalogue of grievances, and Wilford made it sadder by brooding over and magnifying it until he reached a point from which he would not swerve.
"I shall do it," he said, and his lips were pressed firmly together, as before his lonely fire he sat that chill March night, revolving the past and then turning to the future opening so darkly before him, and making him shudder as he thought of what it might bring. "I will spare Katy as much as possible," he said, "for hers is a different nature from Genevra's. She cannot bear as well," and a bitter groan broke the silence of the room as Katy came up before him just as she had looked that very morning standing by the window, with tears in her eyes, and a wistful, sorry look on her white face.
Could she be false to him and wear that look? The question staggered Wilford for a moment, but when he remembered the proof, he steeled his heart against her and prepared to act.