It was precious for two reasons: it was the photograph of her beautiful mother whom she could not remember, and it would identify her to the aunt in Hartford. Forgetting her occupation in her anger, she left off bathing Darrell's wrist; and, squeezing his arm so tightly that the boy winced with pain, she clapped her right hand upon her hip, and turned, with flashing eyes and an inflamed countenance, towards her crest-fallen spouse. It is Thérèse. "As it's getting late, and the porter may be gone to bed," he observed; "I'll take the pass-key, and let myself in. She cut a deep gash into her own arm with a steel screw, loosing drops of her own blood onto the floorboards.
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