“How CAN I tell him?” whispered Miss Stanley. He—In fact, he—he locked me in my room. She was aware of the body of the court, of clerks seated at a black table littered with papers, of policemen standing about stiffly with expressions of conscious integrity, and a murmuring background of the heads and shoulders of spectators close behind her. Meysey Hill—never your wife. They set about everyone—everyone. And like that gospel it meant something, something different from its phrases, something elusive, and yet something that in spite of the superficial incoherence of its phrasing, was largely essentially true.
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