Yea, it becomes a man
To cherish memory, where he had delight,
For kindness is the natural birth of kindness.
Whose soul records not the great debt of joy,
Is stamped forever an ignoble man.
Sophocles (Ajax).
As Rankin broke the news to Margaret—by degrees and very quietly—she showed but little sign of feeling. Her face whitened and she moved stiffly to the open window, where she could sit in the draught. As she made Rankin tell her the whole story she simply grew stony, while she sat with bloodless hands clinched together, as if she thus clutched at her soul to save it from the madness of a terrible grief.
Suddenly she interrupted him.
"Dismiss your cab," she said. "I will walk back with you part of the way."
When she turned toward him, the strained face was so white and the eyes so wide and expressionless that he became afraid.
"Perhaps you would rather be alone," said he, doubtful about letting her go into the street.
She seemed to divine what was in his mind, for she made him feel more at ease by a gentler tone:
"Alone? No, no! Anything but that! The walk will do me good."