"I should have told you anyhow soon.... You aren't sorry I've told you?"
"I don't know. I think ... I think I'm sorry just now. I shall be able to thank you for that later."
"I did it for the best," said Kent.
"You were right."
He leant against the mantelpiece, his chin sunk. The only sound in the room came from the kettle, on which the woman's eyes were fixed intently. The clock of St. Giles-in-the-Fields tolled four.
"What am I to do?" he said.
"Oh," she moaned, "don't ask me; I can't think yet.... You've killed me, Humphrey—you've killed me!"
He dropped before her chair and stroked her hand. Her pain writhed like a live thing at his touch, but, in pity for him, she let the hand lie still and suffered.
"Did you ... love her so much?" she asked.
"God knows I didn't!"