“No?—you say this to us who could—kill you with a touch?”
“I will not do it,” she said.
“Do you know what you are saying, old woman?—tempting me, tempting him, to murder? You needn’t look to the door: there is not a soul that could hear you—Andrew’s fast asleep, and you wouldn’t call him, to bear witness against your son.”
“No,” she said, “I would not call him to bear witness—against—my son.”
“Sign! sign! sign!” cried Lew; “do you think we’ll wait for you all night?”
“I will not sign.”
“Old woman! you wretched old fool, trusting, I suppose, to that fellow there! Better trust me than him. Look here, no more of this. You shall sign whether you will or not.” He seized her hand as he spoke, thrust the pen into it, and forced it upon the paper. Her little wrist seemed to crush together in his big hand. She gave a faint cry, but no more. Her fingers remained motionless in his hold. He was growing red with impatience and fury, his eyes fierce, his mouth set. She looked up at him for a moment, but said not a word.
“Will you do it? will you do it?—at once!—when I tell you.”
“No.”
He let her hand go and seized her by the shoulders. He had by this time forgotten everything except that he was crossed and resisted by a feeble creature in his power. And in this state he was appalling, murder in his eye, and an ungovernable impulse in his mind. He seized her by her shoulders, the white shawl crumpling in soft folds not much less strong to resist than the flesh beneath in his hands, and shook her, violently, furiously, like a dog rather than a man.