Struggling to her feet, helped up by the strong grasp of the madman
whose hand was upon her arm, Mrs. Abercrombie tried to rally her
bewildered thoughts. She knew that her life was in danger, but she
knew also that much, if not everything, depended on her own conduct.
The very extremity of her peril calmed her thoughts and gave them
clearness and decision. Plunging forward as soon as his wife could
recover herself again, General Abercrombie strode away with a speed
that made it almost impossible for her to move on without falling,
especially as the snow was lying deep and unbroken on the pavement,
and her long dress, which she had not taken time to loop up before
starting, dragged about her feet and impeded her steps. They had not
gone half a block before she fell again. A wild beast could hardly
have growled more savagely than did this insane man as he caught her
up from the bed of snow into which she had fallen and shook her with
fierce passion. A large, strong man, with an influx of demoniac,
strength in every muscle, his wife was little more than a child in
his hands. He could have crushed the life out of her at a single
grip.
Not a word or sound came from Mrs. Abercrombie. The snow that
covered the earth was scarcely whiter than her rigid face. Her eyes,
as the light of a flickering gas-lamp shone into them, hardly
reflected back its gleam, so leaden was their despair.
He shook her fiercely, the tightening grasp on her arms bruising the
tender flesh, cursed her, and then, in a blind fury, cast her from
him almost into the middle of the street, where she lay motionless,
half buried in the snow.
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