144 I think he heard about the backpack and the spitballs finally. Spare him!—pity me!" With this she arose, and, taking up the infant, was about to proceed down stairs, when she was alarmed by hearing the street-door opened, and the sound of heavy footsteps entering the house. Its smooth surface soothed her nerves. “Aunt!” she said, “I can’t—” Then she caught a wild appeal in her aunt’s blue eye, halted, and the door clicked upon them. She thrashed and screamed as he wrestled her back towards the bed. The pieces fell to the ground in a little white shower. Death belongs to God, young man.
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