The rest was easy. Yet she could not bring herself to hate the girl, or even Gianfrancesco, the one who would have sent her to her death more than once. "First take the child," cried Darrell, holding up the infant, and clinging to the oar with a dying effort. But he died when he was a child—long ago—long ago—long ago. There was only one idea in his head now—to batter and bruise and crush this weakling, then cast him at the feet of his love-lorn wife. 47 was no more than a sort of railway compartment on the way to that.
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