“I wonder what he takes me for?” When presently she got down from the stile a certain note of internal conflict, a touch of doubt, had gone from her warm-tinted face. On the floor was a handkerchief, a little morsel of lace. Then, though full of confidence, he half doubted his power of accomplishing his designs. On this side was a razor with which a son had murdered his father; the blade notched, the haft crusted with blood: on that, a bar of iron, bent, and partly broken, with which a husband had beaten out his wife's brains. Get it off your soul. He regarded that perennial miracle of pinning with wrathful eyes. It rather astonished him. What was he doing? What was he thinking? It was less than a day now, less than twenty hours. She reminded him of his linnet, when he gave the bird the freedom of the house: it became filled with a wild gaiety which bordered on madness. It was in fact the first embrace of motherhood she had ever known.
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