She leaned forward and her eyes narrowed between her eyelids in an expression he had never seen on her face before. Then she continued, with a peculiar solemnity, almost like a young neophyte repeating a fatal ritual, “I should have known⁠ ⁠… tonight⁠ ⁠… what⁠ ⁠… now⁠ ⁠… I⁠ ⁠… shall⁠ ⁠… never⁠ ⁠… know!”

Staring at that little oval face, with that strange expression of finality upon it, he muttered huskily: “Christie, Christie, I love you. I love you.” His voice had a groaning intensity, like that of a branch creaking in a storm. “I have been thinking only of myself. But I love you, Christie! I love you more than anyone in the world!”

She looked steadily into his face; and thus they waited, listening as before to the weird wailing sound that the wind was still making in the chimney.