When a man has reached a certain time of life he must not crave for forbidden delights, he must not permit himself to be eaten up with new desire, he must not risk destroying a girl's soul for the gratification of his own body. If he does, he commits the unpardonable sin. And there is no excuse for him.
The Devil's reasonings to which a few minutes ago he had listened greedily were specious, futile, utterly false. That sort of argument might do for other men--might do for every other man in the wide world--but it would not do for him, William Dale. Its acceptance would knock the very ground from under his feet.
For, if there could be any excuse, why had he killed Everard Barradine?