The old woman,
glad for any sign of life, stepped closer.
"What is it, Mary?"
"The fool! The fool!" she raged, pacing back and forth like a caged
animal.
"Who?"
"Stephen Purceville! Today we are to, `Ride again, and make our love
in the fields.' Oh, if he only knew how I detest him now!"
As if some horrid music box which played always the same restless
dirge, the lid of it thus lifted, her mother's long obsession for
vengeance once more began to work inside her. Even then.
"You must be careful, lass. If you tell him as much there could be
trouble, and not the swift and easy death you seem to long for. If you
truly wish to hurt him---"
Mary cut her short with a swift, knifing motion of her arm. Upon
hearing these words an intolerable irritation had come over her at the
stupidity of these sorry puppets: her mother, and the Purcevilles both
young and old, playing out their little games of lust and hate, as if
they mattered at all in the end. How could they fail to see that
everything, everything ended in death and ruin? All their petty
desires were less than meaningless; they were absurd.
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