On that night,—that fatal night,—Winifred crushed all the hopes that were rising in my heart. Her eyes were insane with rage, crusted with yellow and green, only beginning to heal from her long sojourn underground. Gerald swore. Do you know the story of Orpheus? He was a musician who followed his damned wife into Hell to bring her back? He was one of us, I believe. “You could have told me about it, Michelle. She could not be more than twenty; and though want and other suffering had done the work of time, had wasted her frame, and robbed her cheek of its bloom and roundness, they had not extinguished the lustre of her eyes, nor thinned her raven hair.
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