As a despoiler of the dead, his offence was rank.

But we had loved him; and we still loved him, and he had expiated his crime by a year's unimaginable torture.
Often have I said that I thought I knew my Adrian, but did not.

Least of all did I know my Adrian then, as I sat paralysed by the revelation of his fraud.

Even now, as I write, looking at things more or less in perspective, I cannot say that I know my Adrian.

With all his faults, his poses, his superficialities, his secrecies, his egotisms, I never dreamed of him as aught but a loyal and honourable gentleman.