The spinster saw herself growing warm again in the morning sunshine of youth —a flaring ember before the hearth grew cold. He was and always would be dramatizing his emotions; perpetually he would be confounding his actual with his imaginary self. Did he intend to kill her now, this instant? Or had she a moment or two to try to save herself? Recalling Leonardo’s dictum, she did not struggle, for that would only tighten the trap about her, and perhaps even spring it. Then he had gone away. .
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