‘She knows them. To be near someone, even someone who made a pretense of friendliness, to hear voices, her own intermingling, would serve as a rehabilitating tonic. Hanging on the wall was a temple censer, bronze, moulded in the shape of a lotus blossom with stem and leaves—deadly as a club. But she could see that Diane watched her more closely now, and in a cat-like way. The poor wretch, driven by desperation to the commission of a crime which her soul abhors, is no more beyond the hope of reformation than she is without the pale of mercy. She admired and rather pitied him, and she was unfeignedly grateful to him. Let him be sure. A lesson learned.
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