"The lady was Miss Alstine, I think."
"You think?"
"Well, I suppose I _know_ that she is. A very eccentric girl, and
somewhat flighty in the upper story."
"Crazed?"
"That's about it, Iris."
"And you have been the cause of it?"
There was a look in the woman's eyes at that moment not pleasant to see.
In fact, even he recoiled from it in evident annoyance and alarm.
This woman had long been his simple tool, doing many things that at one
time she would have shrunk from in horror and loathing. Andrew Barkswell
had dragged her down to his own level, and was even now meditating her
complete destruction. He had never scorned her, or told the truth, that
she was no longer loved. He understood her nature too well. He pretended
the most extravagant affection at times, and it was thus that he held her
confidence, in spite of the facts that bade her hate and despise him.
"No, Iris; you are mistaken," said the man, in answer to the last words
of his wife. "I have never harmed the girl, nor do I wish to do so. I
hope you won't borrow any trouble over her."
"I ought not to, I suppose.
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