Eppingwell, she could not forego the kill.
But here Mrs. Eppingwell did a strange thing. So this, at last, was
Freda, she mused, the dancer and the destroyer of men; the woman from
whose door she had been turned. And she, too, felt the imperious
creature's nakedness as though it were her own. Perhaps it was this, her
Saxon disinclination to meet a disadvantaged foe, perhaps, forsooth, that
it might give her greater strength in the struggle for the man, and it
might have been a little of both; but be that as it may, she did do this
strange thing. When Mrs. McFee's thin voice, vibrant with malice, had
raised, and Freda turned involuntarily, Mrs. Eppingwell also turned,
removed her mask, and inclined her head in acknowledgment.
It was another flashing, eternal second, during which these two women
regarded each other. The one, eyes blazing, meteoric; at bay,
aggressive; suffering in advance and resenting in advance the scorn and
ridicule and insult she had thrown herself open to; a beautiful, burning,
bubbling lava cone of flesh and spirit. And the other, calm-eyed, cool-
browed, serene; strong in her own integrity, with faith in herself,
thoroughly at ease; dispassionate, imperturbable; a figure chiselled from
some cold marble quarry.
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