Her father was not silver-haired then, but
raven-locked; with eyes that men feared at times but no woman ever.
His eyes were on her now as so often in girlhood when he had curbed
her exuberance and guided her waywardness. He was watching as she,
coarsely wrapped and carrying some bundle of things of her own, opened
her front door, left her footprints in the snow on the porch, and
passed out--wading away. Those eyes of his saw what took place the
next day: the happiness of Christmas morning turned into horror; the
children wild with distress and crying--the servants dumb--the inquiry
at neighbors' houses--the news spreading to the town--the papers--the
black ruin. And from him two restraining words issued for her ear:
"My daughter!"
Passionately she bore the picture to her lips and her pride answered
him. And so answering, it applied a torch to her blood and her blood
took fire and a flame of rage spread through and swept her. She
stopped her preparations: she had begun to think as well as to feel.
She unpacked her travelling bag, putting each article back into its
place with exaggerated pains. Having done this, she stood in the
middle of the floor, looking about her irresolute: then responding to
that power of low suggestion which is one of anger's weapons, she
began to devise malice.
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