The second blow must have knocked her down, for she found herself rising
to her knees, reaching for the table to aid her. But her hand was all
red and slippery; she looked at it stupidly, fell forward, rose again,
with the acrid smell of smoke choking her, and her pretty fur jacket all
soaked with the warm wet stuff which now stained both hands.
Then she got to her knees once more, groped in the rushing darkness,
and swayed forward, falling loosely and flat. And this time she did not
try to rise.
* * * * *
It was her way; it had always been her way out of trouble; the quickest,
easiest escape from what she did not choose to endure. And even when in
her mind the light of reason had gone out for ever, she had not lost
that instinct for escape; and, wittingly or not, she had taken the old
way out of trouble--the shortest, quickest way. And where it leads--she
knew at last, lying there on her face, her fur jacket and her little
hands so soiled and red.
Pages:
705
706
707
708
709
710
711
712
713
714
715
716
717
718
719
720
721
722
723
724
725
726
727
728
729