I saw the flashing of a jewelled wrist, with a billetita held at the tips of tapering fingers!
Stodare could not have taken that note more adroitly, or concealed it with quicker sleight, than did my friend Francisco Moreno—never more to be friend of mine!
Chapter Twenty Three.
Her Name is Dolores.
There is one subject upon which there can be no question—nothing to admit of discussion. It is, that jealousy is the most painful thought that can torture the soul of man.
In painfulness it has its degrees—greater or less, according to its kind: for of this dread passion, conceit, or whatever you may call it, there is more than one species.
There is the jealousy that springs after possession; and that which arises from anticipation. Mine, of course, belonged to the latter.
I shall not stay to inquire which is the more disagreeable of the two—as a general rule. I can only say, that, standing there under the Peruvian pepper-trees, I felt as if the shades of death and the furies of hell were above and around me.