What more she said Frances did not hear.
It was to be! There was the morphia, and yonder the
night drink within her reach. It was God's will.
Colette turned out the lamp, hesitated, and sat down by
the fire. Presently she rose softly, bent over her
mistress, and, finding her asleep, left the room
noiselessly. Her door closed far down the corridor.
Mrs. Waldeaux was quite alone, now.
It was but a step across the hall. So easy to do--easy.
It must be done at once.
But her feet were like lead, she could not move; her
tongue lay icy cold in her mouth. Her soul was willing,
but her body rebelled.
What folly was this? It was the work of a moment.
George would be free. She would have freed him.
In God's name then----
She crossed the hall softly. Into the hell of her
thoughts flashed a little womanish shame, that she,
Frances Waldeaux, should be walking on tiptoe, like a
thief.
She took down the package, and leaning over the table at
the side of the bed, shook the white powder into the
glass. Then she went back to her room and shut the door.
The casement was open and the moonlight was white
outside. She was conscious that the glare hurt her eyes,
and that there was a strange stricture about her jaws and
the base of her brain, like an iron hand.
It seemed to her but a minute that she stood there, but
the dawn was breaking when there was a sudden confusion
in the opposite room. She heard Colette's voice,
and then George's, calling Lisa.
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