“Have either of you been out of this room since you discovered what had happened?” he asked. She had already killed more than she wanted to count, yet she had counted them still. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. She resumed her on guard position, and glaring steadily at him, waited again. No one would ever know what happened to him. Up to dinner yesterday I did not expect to come to Canton. When I examined you for ‘ill humors’ I longed to run my hands over your entire body, to touch your face, to caress you in the places that would give you pleasure.
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