The voice of
Elizabeth was hard as iron. It brought a corresponding stiffening of
Terence.
"I'm done," he said, with a certain ring to his voice that Vance was glad
to hear.
It brought a flush into the pale cheeks of Elizabeth.
"It is easy to see that you're proud of what you have done, Terence."
"Yes," he answered with sudden defiance, "I am proud. It's the best thing
I've ever done. I regret only one part of it."
"And that?"
"That my bullet didn't kill him!"
Elizabeth looked down and tapped the folded paper against her fingertips.
Whether it was mere thoughtfulness or a desire to veil a profound emotion
from Terence, her brother could not tell. But he knew that something of
importance was in the air. He scented it as clearly as the smoke of a
forest fire.
"I thought," she said in her new and icy manner, "that that would be your
one regret."
She looked suddenly up at Terence.
"Twenty-four years," she said, "have passed since I took you into my
life. At that time I was told that I was doing a rash thing, a dangerous
thing--that before your twenty-fifth birthday the bad blood would out;
that you would, in short, have shot a man.
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