"It is I," he answered, and straightened himself. It seemed odd to him
she did not open the door at once. "I want a word with you," he added,
after a pause. But still the door was locked.
"Justine," he called again, "do you not hear me? I want to speak to
you."
Then through the slender woodwork at his side a whisper filtered, the
dumb voice of one whom madness may have in charge.
"It is not to speak you come, it is to kill."
"Justine!" he cried. All the agony of his life he distilled into her
name, "Justine!"
"You killed your child before, you shall not kill another now."