She could feel her body rebel against her actions, convulsing, so she forced herself to think of her mother in Heaven, her mother's beautiful face, the sun dancing across the rivers of her home. To his consternation, she was holding an unwieldy, ugly-looking pistol, all wood and tarnished steel, with both hands about the butt. She had come to despise those who were fertile out of pure jealousy, but could not admit it to herself. There was no one at home, and I was coming away when I saw that the door was open. She had traversed perhaps three bookshelves, passed across the door that must lead to the hall, turned the corner, and was just about to reach the fireplace when she abruptly became aware that something under her fingers had felt wrong. I never forgive an injury. "Yes; I know I look it," said O'Higgins, amiably.
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