I must tell somebody—and you would understand. She slept in a bedroom clad in linens and skins, walked down hallways bedecked in the most gay and colorful frescos. But if he speaks—I fear what he may tell. For the first time, perhaps, in his life, he repented of his brutality. When she occupied, it, it was neatness itself; the little porch was overrun with creepers—the garden trim and exquisitely kept. . “It was poison—why not?” she answered. Over the mantel, set into an ornately carved panel with fluted columns at each end, was a portrait of a man on horseback. ‘We was of an age, you see, miss. There is light enough from the sun,’ she said, relieved.
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