Drummond, who had been about to speak, refrained. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. They stood back together and stared at it. The present divinity of the cellar was a comely middle-aged dame, almost as stout, and quite as shrill-voiced, as the Billingsgate fish-wives above-mentioned, Mrs. His conscience never told him to go back and take his punishment; it tortured him only in regard to the deed itself.
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