A silver necklace enhanced the dusky beauty of her neck. Over an old crazy bedstead was thrown a squalid, patchwork counterpane; and upon the counterpane lay a black hood and scarf, a pair of bodice of the cumbrous form in vogue at the beginning of the last century, and some other articles of female attire. Ah, but she could remember; and many things there were that she would never forgive. She used his own gun against him, a method that was occasionally cleaner than slitting throats when she got it right. After all, what did it matter?—it or anything else in the world? She was within reach of his arms, beautiful, compelling, herself as it seemed suddenly conscious of the light which was burning in his eyes.
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