It was full of implacable vengeance.
Involuntarily he felt for his knife. It was gone. His gun he had left
inside the graveyard, leaning against the wall. Ah! in the
graveyard! Yes, and there also was Ramona waiting for him.
Thoughts of vengeance fled. The world held now but one work,
one hope, one passion, for him. But he would at least see who
were these dwellers in his father's house. A fierce desire to see
their faces burned within him. Why should he thus torture himself?
Why, indeed? But he must. He would see the new home-life
already begun on the grave of his. Stealthily creeping under the
window from which the light shone, he listened. He heard
children's voices; a woman's voice; at intervals the voice of a man,
gruff and surly; various household sounds also. It was evidently the
supper-hour. Cautiously raising himself till his eyes were on a
level with the lowest panes in the window, he looked in.
A table was set in the middle of the floor, and there were sitting at
it a man, woman, and two children. The youngest, little more than
a baby, sat in its high chair, drumming with a spoon on the table,
impatient for its supper.
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