Wilkie Collins

“ The third time, that horrid shivering of the night at the lonely inn, that awful sinking pain at the heart, came back again, and roused me in an instant.
My eyes turned to the left-hand side of the bed. And there stood, looking at me——
The Dream Woman again? No! My wife. The living woman, with the face of the Dream—in the attitude of the Dream—the fair arm up; the knife clasped in the delicate white hand.
I sprang upon her on the instant; but not quickly enough to stop her from hiding the knife. ”

“ In the last days of my mother's illness she had spitefully added a sting to my grief by declaring she would assert her right to attend the funeral. In spite of all that I could do or say, she held to her word. On the day appointed for the burial she forced herself—inflamed and shameless with drink, into my presence, and swore she would walk in the funeral procession to my mother's grave.
This last insult—after all I had gone through already—was more than I could endure. It maddened me. Try to make allowances for a man beside himself. ”