"It is the fiend!" she exclaimed, recoiling. A white house that she often found charming loomed gray and ashen, its gardens shorn for the coming winter. Hitherto it had been qualified by her conception of all life as a compromise, by her new effort to be unexacting of life. She shrank from him as he gripped her hand more forcibly. "Heaven have mercy on his soul!" ejaculated Wood. You know that, and I know that, though we might be put to it to find a reason why. But before the Grieg concerto was done, she knew that she was free. I am a little afraid. Be a good wife to him.
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