She reviewed the whole position; she went
over all the arguments and searched the moral horizon for some feasible
avenue of escape. But she could find none that would save Geoffrey,
except this. Yes, she would do it, as many another wretched woman had
done before her, not from cowardice indeed, for had she alone been
concerned she would have faced the thing out, fighting to the bitter
end--but for this reason only, it would cut off the dangers which
threatened Geoffrey at their very root and source. Of course there must
be no scandal; it must never be known that she had killed herself, or
she might defeat her own object, for the story would be raked up. But
she well knew how to avoid such a possibility; in her extremity Beatrice
grew cunning as a fox. Yes, and there might be an inquest at which
awkward questions would be asked. But, as she well knew also, before
an inquest can be held there must be something to hold it on, and that
something would not be there.
And so in the utter silence of the night and in the loneliness of her
chamber did Beatrice dedicate herself to sacrifice upon the altar of
her immeasurable love.
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