You are my prisoner, murderer. I——” Then he stopped short, for he began to remember things. Forgetting her occupation in her anger, she left off bathing Darrell's wrist; and, squeezing his arm so tightly that the boy winced with pain, she clapped her right hand upon her hip, and turned, with flashing eyes and an inflamed countenance, towards her crest-fallen spouse. This salute of his—actually the first she could remember—while it did not disturb her, began to lead her thoughts into new channels of speculation. She stared out of the paned glass window, watching the trees being blown bare by the gale force.
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