The last frail tie between my wife and myself had been snapped asunder--the child, the one innocent link in the long chain of falsehood and deception, no longer existed.

Was I glad or sorry for this?
I asked myself the question a hundred times, and I admitted the truth, though I trembled to realize it.

I was GLAD--yes--GLAD! Glad that my own child was dead! You call this inhuman perhaps?
Why?
She was bound to have been miserable; she was now happy! The tragedy of her parents' lives could be enacted without imbittering and darkening her young days, she was out of it all, and I rejoiced to know it.

For I was absolutely relentless; had my little Stella lived, not even for her sake would I have relaxed in one detail of my vengeance--nothing seemed to me so paramount as the necessity for restoring my own self-respect and damaged honor.

In England I know these things are managed by the Divorce Court.