. And, though neither peace nor innocence can be restored to my bosom; though tears cannot blot out my offences, nor sorrow drown my shame; yet, knowing that my penitence is sincere, I do not despair that my transgressions may be forgiven. They were suddenly thrown aside, and a man stepped out from his hiding-place. ‘You were supposed to be nursing him,’ Martha grumbled, ‘and helping him convalesce. If hate could kill, Ramage would have been killed by a flash of hate. The woollen-draper looked at his watch. She distinctly shivered as he forced her to look at him. To be sure, he was attentive, respectful; but in his conduct there was none of that shameless camaraderie of a man who loved his woman and didn't care a hang if all the world knew it.
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