There was the look of a demon on his countenance. He seemed to gloat over
the sufferings of his dying wife.
"Andrew, oh, Andrew!"
It was a rebuking cry, but it failed to touch the calloused heart of the
being before her.
"You have tormented me continually, Iris," he said, with cool
deliberation, "and now my hour of triumph has come."
He laughed hoarsely.
He seemed to enjoy the ghostly horror exhibited on the face of his
devoted wife.
"Let me tell you what I have done," he proceeded, with the malice born of
a devil's nature. "I get rid of you to make room for another."
"Spare me, Andrew," moaned the pallid lips of the dying woman, already
foam-flecked from the effects of the inward workings of the poison last
administered.
"I will not. You tormented me until life become a burden, harping on my
shortcomings. You are too good for this world, Iris--just proper for an
angel, and so 'tis best for you to go. I have found one who will fill
your place to perfection, and make me a happy man, since she brings
wealth to back her claims. I speak of Rose Alstine.
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