"That you, Grace?" said Clara, almost kindly, for in her victorious joy she was ready to be at peace with all the world.
The answer was something dashed violently in her face,—something fluid and fiery,—something that ate into her flesh, that frenzied her with pain, that drove her shrieking she knew not whither.
Late in the same night, a pointsman, walking along the railway a little distance out of the town, came upon the body of a woman, train-crushed, horrible to view. She wore the dress of a lady; a shawl was still partly wrapped about her, and her hands were gloved. Nothing discoverable upon her would have helped strangers in the task of identification, and as for her face. But a missing woman was already sought by the police, and when certain persons were taken to view this body, they had no difficulty in pronouncing it that of Grace Danver.
