I had no possible guide to the idea of suicide
and the sight of the little flask of nitrate of amyl in Florence's
hand suggested instantly to my mind the idea of the failure of her
heart. Nitrate of amyl, you understand, is the drug that is given to
relieve sufferers from angina pectoris.
Seeing Florence, as I had seen her, running with a white face and
with one hand held over her heart, and seeing her, as I
immediately afterwards saw her, lying upon her bed with the so
familiar little brown flask clenched in her fingers, it was natural
enough for my mind to frame the idea. As happened now and
again, I thought, she had gone out without her remedy and, having
felt an attack coming on whilst she was in the gardens, she had run
in to get the nitrate in order, as quickly as possible, to obtain relief.
And it was equally inevitable my mind should frame the thought
that her heart, unable to stand the strain of the running, should
have broken in her side. How could I have known that, during all
the years of our married life, that little brown flask had contained,
not nitrate of amyl, but prussic acid? It was inconceivable.
Why, not even Edward Ashburnham, who was, after all more
intimate with her than I was, had an inkling of the truth.
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