The book was tastefully got up; Amy exclaimed with pleasure as she caught sight of the cover and lettering: 'It may succeed, Edwin.

It doesn't look like a book that fails, does it ?' She laughed at her own childishness.

But Reardon had opened one of the volumes, and was glancing over the beginning of a chapter.
'Good God!' he cried.

'What hellish torment it was to write that page! I did it one morning when the fog was so thick that I had to light the lamp.

It brings cold sweat to my forehead to read the words.