Perhaps her odd beauty—and that too was natural—stirred these thoughts into being. “This,” he exclaimed, “must be either the indifference of an utterly callous nature, or it may be—ye gods, it may be—innocence. ’ ‘You should be happy that you are not dead,’ she retorted, but with a diminution of the venom and fright in her voice. ‘Come, Jacques, mon pauvre,’ she uttered, and reached for the lad again, hardly aware of the muted sounds of running feet and much banging and crashing beyond the secret door. ‘That will be a matter for her future husband to decide. "Perhaps that would have been best. She would buy a Greyhound ticket to New Orleans, make a kill or two, then travel into Texas and seduce some wandering man into taking her to Mexico, feast upon him once they got there. “It is a night of endings,” she murmured to herself.
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