“Too light to satisfy her sister, at any rate.”
Tormarin froze.
“It is fortunate, then, that my ultimate fate does not lie in your hands,” he observed.
“But that is just where it does lie—in the palm of my hand—there!”
She flung out one shapely hand, palm, upward, and pointed to it with the other.
“And now—see—I close my hand—so!... And this beautiful marriage of which you have dreamed, your marriage with Mees Peterson—it does not take place!”
“Are you mad?” asked Blaise contemptuously, experiencing all an Englishman’s distaste for this display of unforced drama.
She shook her head.
“No,” she said quietly. “I am not mad.”
The air of theatricality seemed to fall suddenly away from her, leaving her a stern and sombre figure, invested with an intrinsic atmosphere of tragedy, filled with one sentiment only—the thirst for vengeance.