The bullet-hole in the portrait spoke for
itself, a constant reminder that the younger Purceville was a force,
and a danger, unto himself. At best he was an emotional powder keg,
prone to sudden threats (and possibly acts) of violence. At worst he
was as cold and calculating as his father. The effectiveness of his
methods could not be questioned. He had taken the two women he loved,
without a fight, from under his very wing. What nest-thieving fox
could claim as much?
Such was the image he began to form of his imagined nemesis.
The morning after was no less a torment. Because for all the
unquenchable fear and concern he felt for them, Mary and his mother
had been right about one thing: he was not well. Nothing short of
bed-rest and shelter from the cold would begin to rid him of the
debilitating fever, and the deep, constrictive cough that had settled
in his chest.
But how could he remain calm, and rest, when those he loved remained
in unspeakable danger? Several times he started for the door, only to
be halted by the cruel realization that there was nothing he could do.
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