Sometimes in the twilight a tall figure would stand musing beside that forgotten grave for awhile, then turn away and walk swiftly up the narrow river street, across the Strand, and through the archway to Grey's Inn.
"Thirty years!" he murmured.

Then his mind seemed to hark back to his previous thought, after the fashion of a man who thinks aloud--"No, no; not his wife.

He did not care enough for her for that.

Thirty years--wasted.

My heart bleeds when I think of it.