"Why, what is it, sis? Your face is as white as paper."

"It's he, it's he. Come, come," and she dragged him away.

"It's who?" asked Washington, when they had gained the carriage.

"It's nobody, it's nothing. Did I say he? I was faint with the heat.
Don't mention it. Don't you speak of it," she added earnestly, grasping
his arm.

When she had gained her room she went to the glass and saw a pallid and
haggard face.

"My God," she cried, "this will never do. I should have killed him, if I
could. The scoundrel still lives, and dares to come here. I ought to
kill him. He has no right to live. How I hate him. And yet I loved
him. Oh heavens, how I did love that man. And why didn't he kill me?
He might better. He did kill all that was good in me. Oh, but he shall
not escape. He shall not escape this time. He may have forgotten. He
will find that a woman's hate doesn't forget. The law? What would the
law do but protect him and make me an outcast? How all Washington would
gather up its virtuous skirts and avoid me, if it knew. I wonder if he
hates me as I do him?"

So Laura raved, in tears and in rage by turns, tossed in a tumult of
passion, which she gave way to with little effort to control.

A servant came to summon her to dinner. She had a headache. The hour
came for the President's reception. She had a raving headache, and the