The old Venetian dagger with the cracked jeweled handle was between her fingers.
Very slowly now she went toward the fireplace.
The electric light flared over the colored gems that studded the handle of the dagger, giving out small quick rays of blue and red and green.
"I'm angry;" she whispered hoarsely. "I—I'm very angry—with—you. You've no right—; no right—to—ruin—my—life—and laugh! You did—laugh—at—me!"
Her eyes stared up at the full, red face with the hard lines in it. Up at the thick, sensual lips. Up at the cunning eyes. At the ponderous, heavy-set figure. The powerful hands.
"Why—don't—you—laugh—now? You aren't afraid—are—you? You—aren't—afraid of—anything? Not of—me—are—you—Daniel Drare—? You've—done—your—best—to—keep—me—under—your—power—; you—stood—behind—Ernest—to keep—me under—your—power. You're—not—afraid—of—me? Why—don't—you—laugh—Daniel—Drare?"
Her right hand that held the dagger raised itself.
"Laugh, Daniel Drare! Laugh!"
She stood there under the portrait. Her left hand went stiffly out feeling over the long cut in the painted arm.
"Angry—last—night." She whispered. "And—it—hurt—you. Daniel Drare—I—could-hurt—you!"