. The blue jowl, the fat-lidded eyes—now merry, now alert, now tungsten hard—the bullet head, the pudgy fingers and the square-toed shoes were all in conformation with the doctor's olden mental picture. He swore that I was his wife, and—I shot him, Nigel, as his arms were closing around me. “It was poison—why not?” she answered. ‘There’s a surgeon on his way, and my men are under orders to do whatever is needful. "Open my heart, Father of Mercy!" she murmured, in a humble tone, and with downcast looks, "and make me sensible of the error of my ways.
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