“Yes, I am avenged,” she answered dully.
He looked at her shrewdly.
“Art thou not satisfied?”
“You will not hurt him else, Bonito?”
“Why should I? He stood in my way; he will stand no longer. That is enough for me.”
“But you will not hurt him?”
“Hurt him, hurt him? Thou art tenderer of him than of his doxy. Look how you smile on while I bleed her—no pity there. And she’ll have to bleed the more for this—we take new life of it—no bottom to our need for funds. She’ll have to bleed again, I say, and make you fresh sport. No tenderness there.”
“You will not hurt him?”
“Plague on the parrot! Why should I hurt him?”
“Swear it.”