“Did you hear what Sundran said?” she asked in a loud whisper.
George nodded.
“Do you think it’s true?”
“I don’t know, dear.”
“What shall you do to Lord Florencecourt if it is true?”
“Do? Nothing.”
“Won’t you? I shall.”
“What?”
“Kill him for having been cruel to my mother.”
She was shaking from head to foot with passion, her eyes lurid as those of a tigress, her white teeth gleaming between thirstily parted lips, as if they would tear the flesh from the bones of the man whose imputed offence in being her father was not yet even proved. George was silent, beset by a crowd of conjectures no less mysterious than unpleasant. She suddenly leaped upon him, seizing his shoulders with small hands that griped tight as claws.