And instead of that she had flung into the agonized face of Mrs.Munday these awful words: "I wish he was dead!" "He who in his heart--" there was verse and chapter for it.

Joan was a murderess.

Just as well, so far as Joan was concerned, might she have taken a carving-knife and stabbed Deacon Hornflower to the heart.
Joan's prayers that night, to the accompaniment of Mrs.Munday's sobs, had a hopeless air of unreality about them.

Mrs.Munday's kiss was cold.
How long Joan lay and tossed upon her little bed she could not tell.
Somewhere about the middle of the night, or so it seemed to her, the frenzy seized her.

Flinging the bedclothes away she rose to her feet.