Violet continued as if she had not heard her. "You know, it's curious
that it never occurred to me before. I've had such queer
sensations--all sorts of funny things going on inside me. It began like
a curious thirst--a very horrible sort of craving, Allegro. That was
what made me take to those cigarettes. I never felt it when I was
smoking them. They made me so deliriously sleepy. It was terrible
when--he--took them away. I felt as if he had pushed me over a deep
abyss. I really can't do without them. They make me float when I'm going
to sink."

She paused, and passed a weary hand across her brow. "Why have I been
crying so, Allegro? I hardly ever cry. Was I sorry for someone? Was it
my mother? Fancy her doing--that!" The heavy eyes grew suddenly wide and
bright. "I wonder if she would have killed me too if she had lived. I
know exactly what made her do it. I should have done it myself--yes, and
revelled in it. Can't you imagine it? The night and the darkness, and
oneself lying there pretending to be asleep and waiting--waiting--for
the man one hated." Suddenly the wide eyes glowed red. "Think of
it--think of it, Allegro!--how one would feel for the point of the knife
when one heard his step, and hide it away under the pillow when at last
he came in. How one's flesh would creep when he lay down! How one's ears
would shout and clamour while one waited for him to sleep! And then--and
then--when he began to breathe slowly and one knew that he was
unconscious--how inch by inch one would draw out one's hand with the
knife and raise the bedclothes, and plunge it hard and deep into his
breast! Would he struggle, Allegro? Would he open his eyes to see his
own life-blood spout out? Would he be frightened, or angry, or just
surprised? I think he would be surprised, don't you? He wouldn't give
his wife credit for hating him so much. Men don't, you know. They never