Ennison reeled, and almost fell. If a cart were coming, or those labourers in the field had heard, escape was impossible. “I murder people, John. Wood's bed-chamber—it was locked, with the key left in it. Not conceiving that his sister—feeble as she was, and yielding as she had ever shown herself to his wishes, whether expressed or implied—would depart without consulting him, he was equally surprised and enraged to hear the servants busied in transporting her to the carriage. Don't strip me quite. I snatched it up, pointed it blindly at him, and fired. The recollection of all her unhappiness, the loveless years, the unending loneliness, the injustice of it, rolled up to her lips in verbal lava. Lucy crouched by the side of the grave, her head in her hands, rocking back and forth. Their small talk continued.
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