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Updated: May 6, 2025
Let them splinter, and burn, and die. What was the lot of them compared with Sally and Sonny? The red glare from the fuse sprang into the room. Tolliver paused, bathed in blood. He closed his eyes to shut out the heavy waves of it. He saw women like Sally and children like Sonny asleep in a train. It gave him an impression that Sally and Sonny were, indeed, on the train.
The Tollivers were of good blood; they had come from Eastern Virginia, and the original Tolliver had been a slave-owner. The very name was, undoubtedly, a corruption of Tagliaferro.
With one of her quick changes of mood Judy beamed on him. "Oh, hasn't it been nice," she said. And then she held out her hand. "Good-bye," she smiled. But as he went down the path she called after him. "If you meet Tommy Tolliver, tell him I want to see him." He stopped. "What do you want him for?" he asked, suddenly suspicious. "I sha'n't tell you."
"I? Never was there in my life, Mr. Cleek never." "Ah! Then who connected with the hall has been?" "Oh, I see what you are driving at," said Sir Henry, following the direction of his gaze. "That Patagonian plant, eh? That belonged to poor Tolliver.
"It is the smell of it, and the wind, and the wide blue water and the wide blue sky. It is something in your blood. I don't believe you really love it at all, Tommy Tolliver." She got up from the couch and began to gather up her wet hair, and only Launcelot saw that she did it to hide her tears. But Tommy was blind to her emotion. "Yes, I do," he asserted, stoutly.
As a matter of fact, however, they really had outstripped the train, but it had been Cleek's pleasure to make two calls on the way, one at Saxmundham, where the paralysed Murple lay in the infirmary of the local practitioner, the other at the mortuary where the body of Tolliver was retained, awaiting the sitting of the coroner.
"Here, please," said the Judge gently, as though he were about to answer that question, and as she passed Hale she seemed to swerve her skirts aside that they might not touch him. "Swear her." June lifted her right hand, put her lips to the soiled, old, black Bible and faced the jury and Hale and Bad Rufe Tolliver whose black eyes never left her face.
"How old's yore girl?" the man asked his host. Tolliver hesitated, trying to remember. "How old are you, June?" "Going on sixteen," she answered, eyes smouldering angrily. This man's cool, impudent appraisal of her was hateful, she felt. He laughed at her manner, easily, insolently, for he was of the type that finds pleasure in the umbrage of women annoyed by his effrontery.
And so while Bad Rufe Tolliver was waiting for death, the trial of the Red Fox went on, and when he was not swinging in a hammock, reading his Bible, telling his visions to his guards and singing hymns, he was in the Court House giving shrewd answers to questions, or none at all, with the benevolent half of his mask turned to the jury and the wolfish snarl of the other half showing only now and then to some hostile witness for whom his hate was stronger than his fear for his own life.
She knew she would fight savagely, but a chill premonition of failure drenched the girl's heart. Later, she went out to the stable where Tolliver was riveting a broken tug. It was characteristic of the man that all his tools, harness, and machinery were worn out or fractured. He never brought a plough in out of the winter storms or mended a leak in the roof until the need was insistent.
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