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"You have said," pursued the widow, "that she, who has once erred, is irreclaimable. For I still love her mother. She would be haunted by the visions of their mad faces in her dreams for the next hundred years. She laughed. The blast shrieked, as if exulting in its wrathful mission. It was a precious thing, a beautiful cabochon—do you know what that is?” “What’s a cabochon?” “It’s a precious jewel that doesn’t have facets yet. 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.
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