He was conscious of a peculiar pleasure in sitting there and thinking of those few hours which already were becoming to assume a definite importance in his mind—a place curiously apart from those dry-as-dust images which had become the gods of his prosaic life. “Did you tell him?” Capes smiled faintly. He just walked in a few minutes ago. Meanwhile, the mob outside had prodigiously increased, and had begun to exhibit some disposition to riot. Martha had been more to her than that. The poor wretch, driven by desperation to the commission of a crime which her soul abhors, is no more beyond the hope of reformation than she is without the pale of mercy.
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