It fell again. The hard voice sank to a tremulous, pitiful tone:
“Oh! stop, if you, are a man!”
They stood opposite each other in utter silence. The light had almost faded. The face in the picture was no longer visible.
Bewildered and awed by the passionate grief of his companion, Lawrence Newt said, gently,
“Why should I stop?”
The form before him had sunk into a chair. Both its hands were clasped over the miniature. He heard the same strange voice like the wailing cry of a child:
“Because I am the woman he loved—because I loved him.”