She began to act. ‘Fiddle, Gerald. Her husband had caught her leaning over a precipice into the ruins of the oubliette, and had punished her by flogging her back with a switch. Upon my word, Anna,” she declared, with a strange little laugh, “you are a thousand times more like me as I was two months ago than I am myself. And many of these deaths could be avoided if it were not for superstition. She was a lovely girl, attired in deep mourning, and having an expression of profound sorrow on her charming features. Even now, during the recurring doubts of the future, the thought of the island was repellent.
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