"The blood that has been spilt is that of his wife. “Mr. ” He walked from his door frame to stand nearer to her. “What have you done to yourself?” he muttered. Taber and no one comment upon it. A solemn consideration, when I enter a great city at night, that every one of those darkly clustered houses encloses its own secret; that every room in every one of them encloses its own secret; that every beating heart in the hundreds of thousands of breasts there, is, in some of its imaginings, a secret to the heart nearest it!' … It kind of terrifies me," said Ruth, looking up, first at the face of her husband, then at McClintock's. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces.
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