If he should die it would be all over, the
factory would never belong to him. She who had bitterly lamented that she
could devise no obstacle had merely to let this helpful chance take its
own course. And this, indeed, was what the voice said, what it repeated
with keen insistence, never adding another syllable. After that there
would be nothing. After that there would merely remain the shattered
remnants of a suppressed man, and a pit of darkness splashed with blood,
in which she discerned, foresaw nothing more. What would happen on the
morrow? She did not wish to know; indeed there would be no morrow. It was
solely the brutal immediate fact which the imperious voice demanded. He
dead, it would be all over, he would never possess the works.
He drew nearer still. And within her now there raged a frightful battle.
How long did it last--days? years? Doubtless but a few seconds. She was
still resolved that she would stop him as he passed, certain as she felt
that she would conquer her horrible thoughts when the moment came for the
decisive gesture. And yet those thoughts invaded her, became materialized
within her, like some physical craving, thirst or hunger.
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