The old
woman (old and haggard at fifty) felt a moment of weakness. She wanted
to cry herself, to give, and receive comfort in return. But the tears
would not come.
Then she remembered the man, and was silent.
And more than anything else Mary had heard or experienced that night,
this simple non-action, and the three words the witch finally uttered.
. . brought home to her the full brutality, and continuing tragedy of
her mother's life.
"He will pay."
As the rain beat relentlessly, and the wind howled through the barren
pass.
Nine
Stephen Purceville rose early the next morning. He had slept alone
that night, something of a rarity, and woke feeling both cleansed and
restless. Cleansed because, like all men who give and take love too
freely, he knew in his heart how meaningless the endless procession of
women had become. Restless because he fancied, and simultaneously
feared it was not true, that he had at last found the woman who would
make it all real, and still the inner turmoil which had haunted him
time out of mind.
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