So often as she had herself manipulated a dagger, she could not mistake the shape that pressured across her chest, or the sharp point that dug below her bosom. The poor old imbecile! Why, this child was a firebrand, a wrecker, if ever he had seen one; and the worst kind because she was unconscious of her gifts. His tone was rough, almost threatening. . “Why?” he asked, suavely. The priceless things were gathered, the belongings packed. I would that you were my own. It was painted in the early seventeenth century by a minor artist named DuPre.
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