"And you wanted to make him—suffer——"
"Yes."
She shivered. "Are all men like that?"
"Like what?"
"Cruel."
"It can't be cruelty. It's a sense of justice."
"I hope it is." She kept thinking about George rising dank and dripping from the fountain. She hated to think about it.
So she changed the subject. "I thought you were painting."
"I was. But the moor is fickle. Yesterday she billowed towards the south, all gray and blue. And last night the storm spoiled it; she is gorgeous and gay to-day, and I don't like her."
"Oh, why not?"