I. A. R. Wylie

“ The dead cannot forgive, and the man she had loved and wronged would never know.
From the door of the shed opposite a tall, misshapen figure came out, and, limping across the intervening space, approached the steps that led up to the window. Eileen Delisle drew herself up as if to turn away. The advent of this man into her life had brought with it a strange unrest. She told herself that she hated him. It was his brain that was piecing together Fenton's secret, his will that had built up the great workshop opposite. ”

“ Delisle, you have never been discourteous. But you avoid me as you would something hateful. You shrink together every time your son runs to meet me. Is that not so? Come”—he laughed out roughly—“be honest! I am only the wreck of a man. And a refined, delicate woman such as you are shrinks naturally from the ugly, the monstrous——”
“That is an insult!” she broke in with such passion that the mockery in his eyes faded. “Have you so low an opinion of me, Mr. Rogers?” ”

“ Don't let there be any curse in your life. You can atone. We will make good what has been—together. The dead rest in peace. Perhaps they never sought honor and glory for themselves, but only for their country and for those they loved. ”