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He loved Ann Veronica, he said; he was so mad to have her that he defeated himself, and did crude and alarming and senseless things. When they were home, the pair headed for the Big Apple or the warmth of the Beck’s family table. The door to the room in question was closed. “Good God!” he exclaimed. It was a pity he didn't break his neck, for he was hanged within the year. Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved.
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