"You're what? Married? _You! married!_ Scone Dacres! not you--not
_married?_"

"_I'm married!_"

"Good Lord!"

"_I'm married_!"

Hawbury sank back in his seat, overwhelmed by the force of this sudden
and tremendous revelation. For some time there was a deep silence.
Both were smoking. The clouds rolled forth from the lips of each, and
curled over their heads, and twined in voluminous folds, and gathered
over them in dark, impenetrable masses. Even so rested the clouds of
doubt, of darkness, and of gloom over the soul of each, and those
which were visible to the eye seemed to typify, symbolize,
characterize, and body forth the darker clouds that overshadowed the
mind.

"_I'm married_!" repeated Dacres, who now seemed to have become like
Poe's raven, and all his words one melancholy burden bore.

"You were not married when I was last with you?" said Hawbury at last,
in the tone of one who was recovering from a fainting fit.

"Yes, I was."

"Not in South America?"