"I knew how it would be," she cried, in the shrill voice peculiar to a shrew, "when you brought that worthless hussy's worthless brat into the house. "My horse is at the door, saddled, with pistols in the holsters,—mount him and fly. She had only to get through this, to solace Manning as much as she could, to put such clumsy plasterings on his wounds as were possible, and then, anyhow, she would be free—free to put her fate to the test. That dress she has on—my mother might have worn it. In a voice husky with suppressed despair, she answered. It was the bitterest moment of her life. She heard the ocean in the distance, waves crashing on the beach, high tide.
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