"God have mercy!"
He rushed to a window and threw it open. The band was playing "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow!" The mocking strains rolled over his prostrate soul. He leaned heavily against the casement and groaned:
"My God!"
He slammed the sash, staggered back into the room, lifted his eyes in a leaden stare at the portrait over the mantel, and then rushed toward it with uplifted arms and streaming eyes:
"It's not true, dearest! Don't believe it—it's not true, I tell you! It's not true!"
The voice sank into inarticulate sobs, he reeled and fell, a limp, black heap on the floor.