“And as for praying for faith—this sort of monologue is about as near as any one of my sort ever gets to prayer. “I want to be your friend,” he said. With your pencil you see into the hearts of all; and without your pencil you are dumb and blind. “Thank you—for coming,” he said. It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls. ” They were lingering over their dessert. Partly, from your confessor; partly, from other sources. " "And so Sir Rowland murdered his friend," remarked Wood.
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