Explore "Mothers of Men" by William Henry Warner on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
The huntsman had successfully stalked the doe. With the ingenuity and skill of long experience he had brought her to bay. The trophy won, he had gone, leaving his victim suffering and alone, with a wound that time might heal, but a scar that could never be effaced.
When Marie roused herself from the stupor in which she had lain, the room was flooded with sunlight. She sat up slowly. Her head throbbed with a splitting pain, her eyeballs burned. She was sick with revolt and terror. This man, whom she had trusted, whom she had thought was her friend, was worse than those from whom he had seemed to protect her. One more veil was torn brutally away from her eyes, and the world stared back at her, gaunt, ugly, grim, and altogether pitiless. Phrases heard at the convent, kept repeating themselves over and over in her brain. What would her father have said could he have known? How could she explain her absence to the Schultzes? How could she face them again? That such a thing as this could have happened to her!