William Wilkie Collins

“ Axe in hand, Wardour approached Frank's bed-place.
"If I could only cut the thoughts out of me," he said to himself, "as I am going to cut the billets out of this wood!" He attacked the bed-place with the axe, like a man who well knew the use of his instrument. "Oh me!" he thought, sadly, "if I had only been born a carpenter instead of a gentleman! A good axe, Master Bateson—I wonder where you got it? Something like a grip, my man, on this handle. Poor Crayford! his words stick in my throat. A fine fellow! a noble fellow! No use thinking, no use regretting; what is said, is said. Work! work! ”

“ No! strong as he was, he could not use the axe. His hands were helpless; they trembled incessantly. He went to the fire; he held his hands over it. They still trembled incessantly; they infected the rest of him. He shuddered all over. He knew fear. His own thoughts terrified him.
"Crayford!" he cried out. "Crayford! come here, and let's go hunting."
No friendly voice answered him. No friendly face showed itself at the door. An interval passed; and there came over him another change. He recovered his self-possession almost as suddenly as he had lost it. ”

“ They looked like C. L. A.—if they looked like anything. He threw down the strip of wood irritably.
"Damn the fellow (whoever he is) who cut this! Why should he carve that name, of all the names in the world?" ”