Mrs. She stared at his pleading face. He would have to go on; he would be forced to enact all the obligations he had imposed upon himself. “The real reason why I am out of place here,” she said, “is because I like men. You don’t wear a dinner coat with a flower in your button-hole, or last night’s shirt, or very glossy boots, nor do you haunt the drawing-room in the evening, or play at being musical. Too much blood has been shed already. He was almost paralyzed with nervousness and desire. Marvel was almost dislodged from his seat on the coffin by a dead dog, which was hurled against him, and struck him in the face. I dare not reflect upon the effect that her son's fate,—if the efforts to save him are ineffectual,—may have upon her enfeebled frame, and still worse upon her mind.
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