The arrangement had been made by the town matchmaker, a frightening old oak of a man. I do not desire to extenuate my guilt—far less to defend it; but I would show you, and such as you —who, happily, are exempted from trials like mine—how much misery has to do with crime. But if I were dying of thirst, in a desert, I would not accept a cup of water at her hands. Drink for him had a queer phase. But at this point he was still subservient, still outwardly humble, in spite of the blackhearted villainy that was even then burgeoning in his breast.
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