Stephen Jones

There is no cry from the woman, and the howling of the wolves stops. Before long they stream away singly, licking their lips. I can not pity her, for I know what has become of her child, and she is better dead! What shall I do? What can I do? How can I escape from this dreadful thrall of night and gloom and fear? To-night goes to post, the first of that fatal series which is to blot out the very traces of my existence from the earth. Let me not think of it. Action! If I could only get into his room! But there is no possible way. The door is always locked, no way for me.