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But such was the violence of his grief,—such the compunction he exhibited, that all but one looked on with an eye of compassion. White, my landlady, believes his story. One could enter and leave by proa, but nothing with a keel could cross the coral gate. "Why does she weep?" Ruth wanted to know. I offered myself as a clerk, as a milliner, as a shop girl. On this side was a razor with which a son had murdered his father; the blade notched, the haft crusted with blood: on that, a bar of iron, bent, and partly broken, with which a husband had beaten out his wife's brains. And yet that could not be: it was a confession only in the event of his death. But that brought Mrs. Lucia confined herself to her quarters, wondering when they would flee to the country as so many other houses had done.
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