At any rate she hated to be in a room with a shut door.
At that moment Leonora hated Edward with a hatred that was like
hell, and she would have liked to bring her riding-whip down
across the girl's face. What right had Nancy to be young and
slender and dark, and gay at times, at times mournful? What right
had she to be exactly the woman to make Leonora's husband
happy? For Leonora knew that Nancy would have made Edward
happy.
Yes, Leonora wished to bring her riding-whip down on Nancy's
young face. She imagined the pleasure she would feel when the
lash fell across those queer features; the plea sure she would feel
at drawing the handle at the same moment toward her, so as to cut
deep into the flesh and to leave a lasting wheal.
Well, she left a lasting wheal, and her words cut deeply into the
girl's mind. . . .
They neither of them spoke about that again. A fortnight went
by--a fortnight of deep rains, of heavy fields, of bad scent.
Leonora's headaches seemed to have gone for good. She hunted
once or twice, letting herself be piloted by Bayham, whilst
Edward looked after the girl. Then, one evening, when those three
were dining alone, Edward said, in the queer, deliberate, heavy
tones that came out of him in those days (he was looking at the
table):
"I have been thinking that Nancy ought to do more for her father.
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