Could other men have loved at all -- could any man love those blowzy , common girls of earth ? It seemed impossible -- absurd . There was only one thing that could be loved -- that white spirit . No wonder his uncle had died . He , Roger Temple , would soon die too . That would be well . Only the dead could woo Isabel . Meanwhile he revelled in his torment and his happiness -- so madly commingled that he never knew whether he was in heaven or hell . It was beautiful -- and dreadful -- and wonderful -- and exquisite -- oh , so exquisite . Mortal love could never be so exquisite . He had never lived before -- now he lived in every fibre of his being . He was glad Aunt Catherine did not worry him with questions . He had feared she would . But she never asked any questions now and she was afraid of Roger , as she had been afraid of his uncle . She dared not ask questions . It was a thing that must not be tampered with . Who knew what she might hear if she asked him questions ? She was very unhappy . Something dreadful had happened to her poor boy -- he had been bewitched by that hussy -- he would die as his uncle had died . `` Mebbe it 's best , '' she muttered .
`` He 's the last XXXXX the Temples , so mebbe she 'll rest in her grave when she 's killed 'em all .
as at by if in of that to whether with