And then he drew back with a cry, and a blanched face.
It was the dead body of a woman.

It lay very lightly on the water, and the face was sweet and calm.

It was not a beautiful face; it was too prematurely aged-looking, too thin and drawn, to be that; but it was a gentle, lovable face, in spite of its stamp of pinch and poverty, and upon it was that look of restful peace that comes to the faces of the sick sometimes when at last the pain has left them.
Fortunately for us--we having no desire to be kept hanging about coroners' courts--some men on the bank had seen the body too, and now took charge of it from us.
We found out the woman's story afterwards.

Of course it was the old, old vulgar tragedy.

She had loved and been deceived--or had deceived herself.