I smiled afterwards to remember the strange topics which came up between us in the midst of that gloom.
And yet, in some vague way, I comprehended that amid the silence, the effort to converse, a bond was strengthening between us both--a bond needing no words.

It seemed to me that I could feel the beating of her heart in response to my own; and that while to my eyes she was but a mere outline, her features invisible, in imagination I looked into that face again, and dreamed dreams the lips dared not express.
Surely we both understood.

Even as I knew my own heart, I believed that I knew hers.

I do not think she cared then to conceal, or deny; but, nevertheless, there existed continually between us a sinister face, a leering, sarcastic face, with thin lips and sneering eyes forever mocking--the hateful face of Joe Kirby.

It was there before me through all those hours, and I doubt not it mocked her with equal persistency.