"Think a little," the Doctor said. "The one sensitive place in
that woman's nature is the place occupied by her self-esteem."

I objected to this that she had shown fondness for her child.

My friend disposed of the objection with his customary readiness.

"The maternal instinct," he said. "A cat is fond of her kittens;
a cow is fond of her calf. No, sir, the one cause of that
outbreak of passion which so shocked you--a genuine outbreak,
beyond all doubt--is to be found in the vanity of a fine feminine
creature, overpowered by a horror of looking hideous, even after
her death. Do you know I rather like that woman?"

"Is it possible that you are in earnest?" I asked.

"I know as well as you do," he answered, that this is neither a
time nor a place for jesting. The fact is, the Prisoner carries
out an idea of mine. It is my positive conviction that the worst
murders--I mean murders deliberately planned--are committed by
persons absolutely deficient in that part of the moral
organization which _feels_. The night before they are hanged they
sleep. On their last morning they eat a breakfast. Incapable of
realizing the horror of murder, they are incapable of realizing
the horror of death. Do you remember the last murderer who was
hanged here--a gentleman's coachman who killed his wife? He had
but two anxieties while he was waiting for execution. One was to
get his allowance of beer doubled, and the other was to be hanged
in his coachman's livery. No! no! these wretches are all alike;