He learnt that his sister was privately married—the name or rank of her husband could not be ascertained—and living in retirement in an obscure dwelling in the Borough, where she had given birth to a son. It seemed incredible that she and her aunt were, indeed, creatures of the same blood, only by a birth or so different beings, and part of that same broad interlacing stream of human life that has invented the fauns and nymphs, Astarte, Aphrodite, Freya, and all the twining beauty of the gods. "Oh, God! that I might die too," cried Jack, falling on his knees beside her. "Your enemy!" she returned imperfectly comprehending him. He must have been following her from room to room, silent in his stockinged feet. “You have even her name.
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