Did you ever hear of Madeira, she asked sharply

It was there that one by one all the passions of love—hatred—revenge had torn my heart. He married and came to England—I followed—repulsed, ignored.

My only weapon against him—was to contrive—the death—of his little son.

But to kill a child—

She caught a shuddering breath.

I could not—

I hid it securely.

Once again I visited Madeira. On the steps of the Church I stabbed my enemy among the flowers in that land of beauty—a crime to darken its perfection.

So you belong to me—

You owe me much—