be sailing too near the wind to
descend further into particulars, and he answered "Yes."

"The young lady must have had a heart that bore transplanting very
readily!"

"She had, she had," said Henchard emphatically.

He opened a third and fourth letter, and read. This time he approached
the conclusion as if the signature were indeed coming with the rest. But
again he stopped short. The truth was that, as may be divined, he had
quite intended to effect a grand catastrophe at the end of this drama
by reading out the name, he had come to the house with no other thought.
But sitting here in cold blood he could not do it.

Such a wrecking of hearts appalled even him. His quality was such
that he could have annihilated them both in the heat of action; but to
accomplish the deed by oral poison was beyond the nerve of his enmity.

35.

As Donald stated, Lucetta had retired early to her room because of
fatigue. She had, however, not gone to rest, but sat in the bedside
chair reading and thinking over the events of the day. At the ringing of
the door-bell by Henchard she wondered who it should be that would call
at that comparatively late hour. The dining-room was almost under her
bed-room; she could hear that somebody was admitted there, and presently
the indistinct murmur of a person reading became audible.

The usual time for Donald's arrival upstairs came and passed, yet still
the reading and conversation went on. This was very singular. She could
think of nothing but that some extraordinary crime had been committed,
and that the visitor, whoever he might be, was reading an account of it
from a special edition of the Casterbridge Chronicle. At last she left
the room, and descended the stairs. The dining-room door was ajar, and
in the silence of the resting household the voice and the words were
recognizable before she reached the lower flight. She stood transfixed.
Her own words greeted her in Henchard's voice, like spirits from the
grave.

Lucetta leant upon the banister with her cheek against the smooth
hand-rail, as if she would make a friend of it in her misery. Rigid in
this position, more and more words fell successively upon her ear. But
what amazed her most was the tone of her husband. He spoke merely in the
accents of a man who made a present of his time.

"One word," he was saying, as the crackling of paper denoted that
Henchard was unfolding yet another sheet. "Is it quite fair to this
young wom