At last his voice came to release her tension. Cathy stood in the bedroom hallway in her faded blue bathrobe. Then began expostulations, preluded by a telegram and headed by her aunt. Hitherto she had seen it chiefly in pictures and other works of art, incidentally, and as a thing taken out of life. A new inexplicable madness that urged him to shrill ironically the story of his coat—to take it off and fling it at the feet of any stranger who chanced to be nigh. “But it makes me feel inhuman,” he added. I am a murderer. “He would never have found you out if you had not personated me. So, very carefully, he raised her in his arms and carried her to her bed. “Yes, mostly.
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