“You’ll kill him—for yourself—for your vengeful hate?”
“No!”
“For Milly Erne’s sake?”
“No.”
“For little Fay’s?”
“No!”
“Oh—for whose?”
“For yours!”
“His blood on my soul!” whispered Jane, and she fell to her knees. This was the long-pending hour of fruition. And the habit of years—the religious passion of her life—leaped from lethargy, and the long months of gradual drifting to doubt were as if they had never been. “If you spill his blood it’ll be on my soul—and on my father’s. Listen.” And she clasped his knees, and clung there as he tried to raise her. “Listen. Am I nothing to you?”
“Woman—don’t trifle at words! I love you! An’ I’ll soon prove it.”