Lucy grabbed his shirtsleeve, whispering on tiptoe. The girl stood with her hands behind her back, sulky, resolute, and intelligent, a strand of her black hair over one eye and looking more than usually delicate-featured, and more than ever like an obdurate child. The necessity which had previously existed of leaving the ghastly evidence of the murderous deed undisturbed,—the presence of the mangled corpse,—the bustle of the inquest, at which her attendance was required,—all these circumstances produced a harrowing effect upon the young girl's imagination. Spurlock, filled with self-mockery, sat in a chair on the west veranda. She reached for the door handle. Mirages, over which he was constantly throwing bridges which were wasted efforts, since invariably they spanned solid ground. . You have been useful to me, or I would not have spared you thus long. ‘Jacques?’ she called.
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