Had she not wounded me enough?
Must I tear away the bandage from the gash?
She had tortured me, and asked me now, with a laugh, to be so good as stretch myself on the rack again.

I would not go.

That laugh was cruel insolence.

I knew that laugh.

Ah, why so I did--I knew it well--how it rose and rippled and fell, losing itself in echoes scarcely audible, but rich with enticing mirth.