It was horrible, but what could she do? She meant to live her own life, and he meant, with contempt and insults, to prevent her. The latter looked very pale, either from the effect of his wound, which was not yet entirely healed, or from suppressed emotion,—partly, perhaps, from both causes,—and wore his left arm in a sling. A snarl contorted his features, and he marched up to it, laying his pistol down on the marquetry table so that his hands were free to grab the picture off the wall. “Just think about what you are asking, John, please. Brendon,” Anna said.
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