“You see,” he said, “it is doubtful if we can ever marry. "I had no thought of injuring your wife, and would have died rather than commit so foul a crime. ‘Not kill me, I mean. It’s one of our conventional superstitions. May I know your name?’ The lady eyed him. Running his hand hastily over it, he was startled to find it one complicated mass of bolts and bars. Her aunt was blandly amiable above a certain tremulous undertow, and talked as if to a caller about the alarming spread of marigolds that summer at the end of the garden, a sort of Yellow Peril to all the smaller hardy annuals, while her father brought some papers to table and presented himself as preoccupied with them. ToC Tyburn was now at hand.
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