Over and over again she
reasoned with herself. There was no cause for panic. Nothing had
happened to change things--and yet--and yet everything was changed.
Everything had been changed from that moment when Martin pressed her
hand in the theatre. Everything! . . . Danger now of every sort. She
could be brave, she could meet anything if she were only sure of
Martin. But he too seemed strange to her. She remembered his dark
look, his frown when she had refused him. Oh, this loneliness, this
helplessness. If she could be with him, beside him, she would fear
nothing. That night, the first faint suspicion of jealousy, of
doubt, an agonising dart of pain at the knowledge of what it would
mean to her now if he left her, stirred in her breast. This room was
stifling. She got up from her chair, went to the window, looked out
between the thick curtains at the dark deserted street. "What is it,
Maggie?" "Nothing, Aunt Anne." "You're very restless, dear." "It's
close. May I open the door?" "A little, dear." She opened the door
and then sat there hearing the Armed Men sway ever so slightly, tap,
tap, against the wall in the passage.
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