I--can't help it--before God." "You don't mean--" Thomas said, and stopped, looking at Barney's back.
"I mean that's why I can't--help it." "Have you hurt your back ?" Thomas asked, in a subdued tone.
"I've hurt my soul," said Barney.

"It happened that Sunday night years ago.

I--can't get over it.

I am bent like his back." "I should think you'd better get over it, then, if that's all," Thomas Payne said, roughly.
"I--can't, any more than he can." "Do you mean your back's hurt?
For God's sake talk sense, Barney!" Thomas cried out, in bewilderment.
"It's more than my back; it's me." Thomas stared at Barney; a horror as of something uncanny and abnormal stole over him.

Was the man's back curved, or had he by some subtle vision a perception of some terrible spiritual deformity, only symbolized by a curved spine?
In a minute he gave an impatient stamp, and tried to shake himself free from the vague pity and horror which the other had aroused.
"Do you know that you are ruining the life of the best woman that ever lived ?" he demanded, fiercely.
Barney looked at him, and suddenly there was a flash as of something noble in his face.
"Look here, Thomas," he said, brokenly, in hoarse gasps.