Years before word had gone abroad that he had killed her, and so it was easy for men wanting to fix a crime to name him.

Perhaps it had been done often.
Probably he bore on his shoulders a burden of numberless crimes.
A dark, passionate fury possessed him.

It shook him like a storm shakes the oak.

When it passed, leaving him cold, with clouded brow and piercing eye, his mind was set.

Spurring his horse, he rode straight toward the village.
Shirley appeared to be a large, pretentious country town.