The white heat of a furnace of agony had shrivelled her poor body, drying up all the juices of its youth.
And yet with the scorching there had crept into the wan face, and into the tones of her tired, heart-broken voice something Jack had never found in her as a girl--something of tenderness, unselfishness--of self-sacrifice for another and with it there flamed up in his own heart a determination to help--to wipe out everything--to sponge the record, to reestablish the man who in a moment of agony had given way to an overpowering temptation and brought his wife to this condition.

A lump rose in his throat, and a look of his old father shone out of his face--that look with which in the years gone by he had defied jury, district attorney, and public opinion for what he considered mercy.

And mercy should be exercised now.

Garry had never done one dishonest act before, and never, God helping, should he be judged for this.
He, John Breen, let Garry be called a common thief! Garry whose every stand in Corklesville had been for justice; Garry whom Morris loved, whose presence brought a cheery word of welcome from every room he entered! Let him be proclaimed a defaulter, insulted by ruffians like McGowan, and treated like a felon--brilliant, lovable, forceful Garry! Never, if he had to go down on his knees to Holker Morris or any other man who could lend him a dollar.
Corinne must have seen the new look in his face, for her own eyes brightened as she asked: "Have you thought of something that can help him ?" Jack did not answer.

His mind was too intent on finding some thread which would unravel the tangle.
"Does anybody else know of this, Corinne ?" he asked at last in a low-pitched voice.
"Nobody." "Nobody must," he exclaimed firmly.