He felt as if the load had been lifted from him already.
He went in quietly, locking the door behind him, as was his custom, and dragged the purple hanging from the portrait.

A cry of pain and indignation broke from him.

He could see no change, save that in the eyes there was a look of cunning and in the mouth the curved wrinkle of the hypocrite.

The thing was still loathsome--more loathsome, if possible, than before--and the scarlet dew that spotted the hand seemed brighter, and more like blood newly spilled.

Then he trembled.