The glance, which he threw at the door, was singularly expressive of his character: it was a mixture of alarm, effrontery, and resolution. “Don’t you know, child, that this is torture for me? What in God’s name more can you have to tell me?” Her face had become almost like a marble image. "Write as I dictate," he cried, placing a pen in the jailer's hand and a pistol to his ear. “But if some one else asked your advice? If some one else said, ‘Here is my teacher, a jaded married man on the verge of middle age, and he and I have a violent passion for one another.
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