The Crime of Henry Vane A Study with a Moral, Classics To Go

Excerpt: "In April, 1873, Henry Vane was sitting on the perron of a small summer house in Brittany, poking the pebbles in the driveway with his cane. He had been there for half an hour, and there was nothing in his appearance and attitude to indicate that he would not be there for half an hour more. There was one red pebble, in particular, which he had an especial desire to prod out from among the others, which were gray. But it was round and slippery, and slid about the ferruled end of his cane. After poking it some time, he desisted and held the cane in his hands in front of his knees, which, as the next step of the porch was not much lower, were as high as his chin. “C’en est fait de moi,” he muttered Henry Vane, though a New Yorker, had been brought up in France, and in the French language his thoughts came most readily. He had just seen, for the last time, an old friend of his—a girl, whom he had known in infancy, in childhood, in maidenhood; and whom it seemed incredible, impossible, intolerable, that he should know no more. It was upon the piazza of her uncle’s house that he was sitting; and she was to leave the next day for Switzerland. He was of age that day, and was “his own man now.” “And hers,” he thought, bitterly. She did not love him, however; and, at his request, had just told him so."