First of all, it would be
murder--!"
"Murder!" Barrymaine repeated, "so it would--murder! Yes, by God!"
"And secondly, you haven't the nerve. Though he has clandestine
meetings with your sister, though he crush you into the mud, trample
you under his feet, throw you into a debtor's prison to rot out your
days--though he ruin you body and soul, and compromise your sister's
honor--still you'd never--murder him, Ronald, you couldn't, you
haven't the heart, because it would be--murder!"
Mr. Chichester's voice was low, yet each incisive, quick-spoken word
reached Barnabas, while upon Barrymaine their effect was demoniac.
Dropping his pistol-case, he threw up wild arms and shook his
clenched fists in the air.
"Damn him!" he cried, "damn him! B-bury me in a debtor's prison,
will he? Foul my sister's honor w-will he? Never! never! I tell you
I'll kill him first!"
"Murder him, Ronald?"
"Murder? I t-tell you it's no murder to kill his sort. G-give me the
pistols."
"Hush! Come into the barn."
"No. W-what for?"
"Well, the time is getting on, Ronald,--nearly seven o'clock, and
your ardent lovers are usually before their time.
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