Giới thiệu truyện
Emeline Hardacre's Revenge.
By Anne O'Hagan
When Emeline Hardacre, on rising, peered through the small-paned window toward the west, she started and rubbed her hand across her eyes. Surely the mist of sleep still blurred them. Surely the thin early column of smoke which had never yet failed to see, a bluer spiral against the cold blue western sky of the morning, was curling upward to-day as usual. But though she rubbed her eyes again and again, and brought her sharp face close against the glass, there came no puff from the chimney of the house in the hollow.
For many years that morning smoke had been to her the symbol of all that she hated most. At sight of it she had each day reawakened the bitter rage, the black jealousy, the implacable sense of outrage which the night had taught to sleep. This morning, failing to see it, she was shaken. Had the sun itself not risen, she had almost been less perturbed. As she made her swift toilet she turned constantly to the window again; but still across the frosty field and the stone-hard road which divided her place from Etta Jordan's no morning signal of life fluttered.
She lit her own fire with trembling hands. She prepared the breakfas
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