She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good! / She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood! / They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years, / Till, now, on the stroke of midnight, / Cold, on the stroke of midnight, / The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!
A terrible terrible dog day storm. Or maybe even a cyclone.
You tell the lie! she accused. And you'd better quit, for your jig is up. I've got you right. […]
Which when they fall, as being slippery standers, / The love that leaned on them, as slippery too, / Do one pluck down another, and together / Die in the fall.
