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43. CHAPTER XLIII (continued)
"I have something to tell you," he said gently.
She knew this superficial gentleness, this confession of hastiness, that was only intended to enhance her admiration of the male.
"I don't want to hear it," she replied. "My sister is going to be ill. My life is going to be with her now. We must manage to build up something, she and I and her child."
"Where are you going?"
"Munich. We start after the inquest, if she is not too ill."
"After the inquest?"
"Have you realised what the verdict at the inquest will be?"
"Yes, heart disease."
"No, my dear; manslaughter."
Margaret drove her fingers through the grass. The hill beneath her moved as if it were alive.
"Manslaughter," repeated Mr. Wilcox. "Charles may go to prison. I dare not tell him. I don't know what to do--what to do. I'm broken--I'm ended."
No sudden warmth arose in her. She did not see that to break him was her only hope. She did not enfold the sufferer in her arms. But all through that day and the next a new life began to move. The verdict was brought in. Charles was committed for trial. It was against all reason that he should be punished, but the law, notwithstanding, sentenced him to three years' imprisonment. Then Henry's fortress gave way. He could bear no one but his wife; he shambled up to Margaret afterwards and asked her to do what she could with him. She did what seemed easiest--she took him down to recruit at Howards End.
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