With this cry he seized half a dozen volumes, and, before I could
understand what he was about, he had flung up the window-sash, and cast the
books into the street. Another batch followed; I heard the thud upon the
pavement. Then I caught him by the arm, held him fast, begged him to
control himself.

'They shall all go!' he cried. 'I loathe the sight of them. They have
killed my dear wife!'

He said it sobbing, and at the last words tears streamed from his eyes. I
had no difficulty now in restraining him. He met my look with a gaze of
infinite pathos, and talked on while he wept.

'If you knew what she has been to me! When she married me I was a ruined
man twenty years older. I have given her nothing but toil and care. You
shall know everything--for years and years I have lived on the earnings of
her labour. Worse than that, I have starved and stinted her to buy books.
Oh, the shame of it! The wickedness of it! It was my vice--the vice that
enslaved me just as if it had been drinking or gambling. I couldn't resist
the temptation--though every day I cried shame upon myself and swore to
overcome it. She never blamed me; never a word--nay, not a look--of a
reproach. I lived in idleness. I never tried to save her that daily toil at
the shop. Do you know that she worked in a shop?--She, with her knowledge
and her refinement leading such a life as that! Think that I have passed
the shop a thousand times, coming home with a book in my hands! I had the
heart to pass, and to think of her there! Oh! Oh!'

Some one was knocking at the door. I went to open, and saw the landlady,
her face set in astonishment, and her arms full of books.