He touched her hand, soft and cool to his fingers—she turned at once to look at him. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. Under this unnerving scrutiny, a slow flush mounted to the woman’s cheeks. She made a curious movement toward her niece, then suddenly, convulsively, she dabbed down something lumpy on the table and turned to follow her brother. . "You've won your wager. She infused menace into her voice.
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