He'd filched to be able to meet the large expenses of his wife's
establishment. Into this he didn't enter minutely, and he didn't blame
her for having so big a menage; he only said he was sorry that he hadn't
been able to support it without having to come, even for a day, to the
stupidity of stealing. After two years he escaped. He asked me to write a
letter to his wife, which he'd dictate. Marmion, you or I couldn't have
dictated that letter if we'd taken a year to do it. There was no religion
in it, no poppy-cock, but straightforward talk, full of sorrow for what
he'd done, and for the disgrace he'd brought on her. I remember the last
few sentences as if I'd seen them yesterday. 'I am dying on the open sea,
disgraced, but free,' he said. 'I am not innocent in act, but I was not
guilty of intentional wrong. I did what I did that you should have all
you wished, all you ought to have. I ask but this--and I shall soon ask
for nothing--that you will have a kind thought, now and then, for the man
who always loved you, and loves you yet. I have never blamed you that you
did not come near me in my trouble; but I wish you were here for a moment
before I go away for ever.
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