His wife met him at the door, and into her hands he delivered his little charge. Every man in her life had betrayed her one way or another. Anna, my love, you cannot have forgotten so soon. I want to be very plain with you. The letter began: “MY DEAREST GIRL,—I cannot let you do this foolish thing—” She crumpled notes and letter together in her hand, and then with a passionate gesture flung them into the fire. But let the horses be in readiness. She put down the sketch-books and apparatus she had brought with her, pulled out her stool, and sat down. She went about the gory business of disposing of the bodies, cutting them up with a large butcher knife and packing the light dry pieces of their bloodless remains in a double ply garbage bag, pieces that looked like overcooked, ruined meat. "You have said," pursued the widow, "that she, who has once erred, is irreclaimable.
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