appealing to the roof. Rawlins dropped the knife, snatched his gun from the holster hanging in its accustomed place behind the door.
"Yes, I'm going to kill you!" he said again, with the unaccented tremolo of passionate rage rising from a base wrong. "Yes, I'm going to kill you!" repeating it like the click of a wheel in stated revolution.
"It's the old woman's fault!" Peck pleaded. "Kill her if you kill anybody. For God's sake, don't shoot me—don't shoot me!"
"Yes, I'm goin' to shoot you!" Rawlins said, in that same panting, hasty, hard voice, believing in his soul that he was going to do it.
