As soon as dinner was over she went into the kitchen and devoted herself to compiling a tray—not a tray merely of halfcooled dinner things, but a specially prepared “nice” tray, suitable for tempting any one. Madame Valade was that kind of woman. This laughter released something that had been striving for expression—her own natural buoyancy. The necessity which had previously existed of leaving the ghastly evidence of the murderous deed undisturbed,—the presence of the mangled corpse,—the bustle of the inquest, at which her attendance was required,—all these circumstances produced a harrowing effect upon the young girl's imagination. This started a thought moving. She uttered a little ejaculative note of joy and rushed to the bed. ’ ‘Yolande, my maid?’ ‘You don’t need a maid,’ Martha said stoutly. They were sharp and dripping with black blood. She ran her gaze over him, and allowed her eyelashes to flutter down.
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