She turned, shuddering, from the contemplation of those hideous possibilities, and took refuge in the hope of his safe, his guiltless return.

Even if his visions of success, even if his purposes of reform (how hopeless at his age!) were actually realised, could she consent to marry the man who had led his life, had written this letter, had contemplated (and still cherished) his merciless resolution of revenge?
No woman in her senses could let the bare idea of being his wife enter her mind.

Iris opened her writing-desk, to hide the letter from all eyes but her own.

As she secured it with the key, her heart sank under the return of a terror remembered but too well.

Once more, the superstitious belief in a destiny that was urging Lord Harry and herself nearer and nearer to each other, even when they seemed to be most widely and most surely separated, thrilled her under the chilling mystery of its presence.