He was her father, but she was not his daughter, only
Woman already swayed by the strength of his gait, and the unswerving
resolution of his hands.
He held a ring of keys, as Ballard had, and like him forced the lock.
The doorway opened and a woman no longer young, but still fair and far
from old, sat up in the ghostly bed and wrapped the coverlet about
her. And the form of light and darkness was no longer behind her,
because it was she, her mother in the bed.
The Lord Purceville took her hard by the wrists, and dared her to
scream. But no such sound came, and it puzzled him. Something like
love shone in the deep and pleading blue eyes. And pain and pain and
pain, because she knew it all before. Yet again the tragedy must be
played. And she could only watch, and feel her heart weeping blood as
all life was drained by him, the widow-spider.
And then her mother was alone in an unknown room, familiar though she
had never seen it, a chalice of poison in her hands. Her face was wet,
for the innocent babe that lay wrapped upon the bed.
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