“No,” he answered, almost violently, “it was his own fault. He brought it on himself. But he’s dead, poor devil, and God knows I haven’t the right to judge him.”
He held her silently for a moment, then the strained rigidity of his features relaxed and a great gladness dawned in his eyes as he stooped his tall head to the soft curls lying on his breast.
“Marny,” he whispered, impellently, “Marny—my wife!” And with a little cry that was love and trust and joy unutterable, she lifted her tear wet face and yielded her lips to his.
TRANSCRIBER NOTES
Mis-spelled words and printer errors have been fixed.
Inconsistency in hyphenation has been retained.