"What is she doing here?" he demanded.

Kate Marcy, who had not seemed to hear his entrance, raised up to him a
face from which all fear had fled, a face which, by its suggestive power,
compelled him to realize the absolute despair clutching now at his own
soul, and against which he was fighting wildly, hopelessly. It was lying
in wait for him, With hideous patience, in the coming watches of the
night. Perhaps he read in the face of this woman whom he had condemned
to suffer all degradation, and over whom he was now powerless, something
which would ultimately save her from the hell now yawning for him; a
redeeming element in her grief of which she herself were not as yet
conscious, a light shining in the darkness of her soul which in eternity
would become luminous. And he saw no light for him--He thrashed in
darkness. He had nothing, now, to give, no power longer to deprive.
She had given all she possessed, the memorial of her kind which would
outlast monuments.

It was Alison who crossed the room swiftly. She laid her hand
protectingly on Kate Marcy's shoulder, and stooped, and kissed her.
She turned to her father.

"It is her right," she said. "He belonged to her, not to us. And we
must take her home with us.

"No," answered Kate Marcy' "I don't want to go. I wouldn't live," she
added with unexpected intensity, "with him."

"You would live with me," said Alison.