Molly’s head drooped wearily a moment, and heavy, labored sighs rose from her tortured breast.
“I wish I were dead!” she sighed, bitterly, to herself; then she looked up with sudden defiance at Louise, and said, with passionate emphasis:
“Very well, then, Louise, I’ll dare all for the sake of having Cecil know the truth, for he could not think quite so badly of me then, and perhaps he would pity me a little in my early grave after I had been murdered for telling him the truth!”
Louise dropped the little hands, and stepping back a pace, regarded Molly in silent, vengeful fury. There was so deadly a wrath in the look that the sick girl cowered and shivered, and fell to rubbing the soft wrists and hands that were black and blue from the cruel grasp of Louise’s hands.
“You defy me, you weak, puny thing!” the latter hissed, fiercely. “Molly Trueheart, you must be mad, indeed. Do you think I will leave you here now to betray me?”
Molly looked at her in sudden apprehension.
“What do you mean?” she faltered.
“I’m going to take you away from this house and hide you where you can never find any one to listen to your story,” her tormentor answered, audaciously.
She sat down again in the great purple velvet chair, and looking insolently at her victim, observed coolly:
“I’m going to sit here until you faint, and then I shall carry you out to my carriage and drive off with you.”