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"One of us has got to die," he panted. She was aware of it now as if it were a voice shouting outside a house, shouting passionate verities in a hot sunlight, a voice that cries while people talk insincerely in a darkened room and pretend not to hear. Wood, who had merely absented himself to see that a public breakfast, which he had ordered at the Six Bells for all who chose to partake of it, was in readiness. She was acquiring truths, but in a series of shocks rather than by the process of analysis. There was the cottage she had inhabited for so many years,—in those fields she had rambled,—at that church she had prayed. Such was the terror inspired by Wild's vindictive character, that few durst face him who had given him cause for displeasure.
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