This was the first of such feelings that he had enjoyed for many a long day. “ Mr. Malakite is dead. ” Was it that particular collocation of words, as his mind visualized them, that gave him this physical thrill of relief? Or was it just the change of the girl’s mood?

He could see, even by that diminished lamplight, when he returned to the sofa, that her streaming tears had made a dark, wet stain upon that pink embroidery. Oh, she would be all right now! Whatever had passed between her and the old man⁠—whatever plague-spot of unspeakable remorse had appeared upon some sensitive fibre in her consciousness⁠—these tears would wash out everything!

How could there be so much saltwater in one tiny skull?