Her departure from the Chapel had been too abrupt to allow
her in a moment to shake off the impression of it--above all, the
impression of Mr. Crashaw standing there, his arms stretched out to
her, his eyes burning her through and through with the urgent
insistence of his discovery.
She was tired, her head ached horribly, she would have given
everything at that moment for a friend who would care for her and
protect her from her own wild fears. She did not know of what she
was afraid, but she knew that she felt that she would rather do
anything than spend the night in that house. And yet what could she
do? How could she escape? She knew that she could not. Oh! if only
Martin would come! Where was he? Why could he not carry her off that
very night? Why did he not come?
She gazed desperately about her. Could she not leave the house there
and then? But where should she go? What could she do without a
friend in London? She stood there, clasping and unclasping her
hands, looking up at the black stairs, listening for some sound from
above, fancying a ghost in every darkening corner of the place.
Then her common sense reasserted itself.
Pages:
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309