All the brooding anger that she had once
seen in Stephen, the forerunner of violence, now showed itself in the
girl, with a keener edge, and yet whiter fire.
"Mary, listen to me," she whispered closely. "You must not do or say
anything to upset him. Our lives, all of them, are in his hands."
But her words were without effect. Mary stood like a fierce, enchanted
statue, waiting only for the sculptor to finish, to come to life and
fulfill its vengeful purpose. And when the last lock of hair was in
place and bound she stalked silently from the room, following the
startled servant.
After two long hallways she hardly noticed, she passed by several
doors in a third, then was ushered in to the great man's den. Her eyes
took in nothing but his seated form, which stamped itself forever in
her mind as the living embodiment of evil, and sole object of
revenge.....
If Henry Purceville had harbored any notions of winning the girl over,
or of displaying even the most distant paternal affection, he soon
forgot them. Her iron gaze quickly despatched the small stirrings of
tenderness (and guilt) which he had felt the night before.
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