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He sent a speculative glance at the immobile yellow face. “It was poison—why not?” she answered. Besides, revenge is sweetened by delay; and I indulge too freely in the passion to rob it of any of its zest. Years ago I marked out an intinerary for myself; but the trip never materialized. “I wonder if you will?” “Let me say one thing,” he said. He was speechless. He had pictured her, if indeed she had ever had the courage to do this thing, as sitting alone, convulsed with guilty fear, starting at her own shadow, a slave to constant terror. Then they had released her arms and were trying to push her away. She must weigh her situation.
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