She read the policeman’s rueful glance when she caught his refection in his rearview mirror. "If you'll write them, I'll illustrate them," observed Hogarth. ‘One of your countrymen, perhaps?’ The girl clammed up, the moon of her white face staring up at him in the darkness. The darkness was almost palpable; and the wind which, hitherto, had been blowing in gusts, was suddenly lulled. His name was Marvel, and his avocation, which was as repulsive as his looks, was that of public executioner. For the first time, perhaps, in his life, he repented of his brutality.
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