Laurent had risen violently, with half a mind to fling himself on the paralysed woman and break her arm.

When he saw this hand return to life to reveal the murder of Camille, he thought all was lost, and already felt the weight and frigidity of the knife on the nape of his neck.
Madame Raquin still wrote, but in a manner that became more and more hesitating.
"This is perfect.

I can read it very well indeed," resumed Olivier after an instant, and with his eyes on the married pair.

"Your aunt writes your two names: '_Therese and Laurent_.'" The old lady made sign after sign in the affirmative, casting crushing glances on the murderers.

Then she sought to complete the sentence, but her fingers had stiffened, the supreme will that galvanised them, escaped her.