Then the arm left his throat, the hand stretched itself out, and clutched at the side toward which he had turned, as if he fancied himself to be grasping at the edge of something.

I saw his lips move, and bent lower over him.

He was still talking in his sleep.
"Light gray eyes," he murmured, "and a droop in the left eyelid; flaxen hair, with a gold-yellow streak in it--all right, mother--fair white arms, with a down on them--little lady's hand, with a reddish look under the finger nails.

The knife--always the cursed knife--first on one side, then on the other.

Aha! you she-devil, where's the knife ?" At the last word his voice rose, and he grew restless on a sudden.