She forgot Anna’s sacrifices, forgot her own callousness, forgot the burden which she had fastened upon her sister’s shoulders. She was still fully dressed; so all she had to do was to pause before the mirror and give her hair a few pats. It came again. Perhaps, she may tell me whose picture this is. “I cut off his right hand pinky with his own rusty bolt cutter. Wild. There were no evidences of any struggle, no overturned chairs or disarranged furniture. What more is there to be said? She defies me!” It was extraordinary. He opened the drawer of the writing table. You denied it, remembering that I had called myself Anna. She moved then, fast, taking refuge behind a Chinese screen that was set beside the four-poster at the back of the room.
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