‘We will converse in your own tongue,’ he said in French as he led her away. His obtuse hands punched and jabbed at her uselessly, then he throttled her neck with the last of his strength. She had time in the afternoons to do crewelwork and embroidery, no longer occupied by the constant spinning of wool. A new restlessness seemed to have stolen in upon her. Oriental rugs adorned the sea of shiny hardwood floors, kept polished with an eye for detail that bordered on Japanese. Whenever ecstasy— any kind of ecstasy—filled her heart to bursting, these physical expressions eased the pressure. He would teach her all he knew of life so that if the Hand should ever reach his shoulder, she would be able to defend herself. The poor old imbecile! Why, this child was a firebrand, a wrecker, if ever he had seen one; and the worst kind because she was unconscious of her gifts.
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