“I'll give you an address to send my things to,” she 
said, and walked out of the garden.  
Theodore Bugg sat stunned. “Holy things,” she had 
said. She called that lustful French photograph holy! 
Was this Original Sin; or was it that strange new thing 
people were talking about—what was it? Ah! heredity. 
Heredity? His secret sin become her open infamy? Truly 
the sins of the fathers were visited on the children!  
By this time he was upstairs and in his bedroom. He 
must destroy the accursed thing; he must destroy—Ah! 
yes. He had contaminated Gertrude by having such a 
thing in his house. He must be the Roman father, and—
what would a Roman father do?  
He had the match alight, but he could not put it to 
the edge of the packet. Then the silence of the house hit 
him; he knew that his daughter would never return, and 
in a fit of rage he trampled on the envelope like a wild 
beast mauling a corpse.  
He thrust it into the empty grate, lit the paper frills, 
watched all blaze up. Then, gulping down a sob, he 
went to the drawer of a cabinet and pulled out the re-
volver which he had bought (and loaded, under the 
shopman’s guidance) against burglars.  
Yes, he must kill himself. He drew back the hammer. 
Cold sweat beaded his flabby face. He could not; and 
anyhow, how did one? He thought of many stories of 
people who had shot themselves ineffectively. He felt for 
his heart and failed to find it, wondered if it had stopped 
and he were dying, had a fit of fear paralysing all his 
will. He thought of himself lying dead.  
“No, by God! I can't do it!” he cried, and flung the 
pistol back into the drawer. As luck would have it, the 
weapon exploded. The bullet broke his jaw, tore away 
four molars, smashed the cheek-bone, pulped the right 
eye, and, glancing from the frontal bone, found its billet 
in the ceiling. He lost consciousness and fell. His head 
struck the grate where yet smouldered the ashes of the 
photograph.