She is a woman of broad experience, and
at once knew that she might as well keep quiet."
Despite his cold eyes and the bad smile she hated, despite his
almost dandified meticulous attire and the festal note of his
white flower, which she hated with the rest--he was, perhaps, not
lying to her. Perhaps for the sake of her mother he had chosen
to save her--and, being the man he was, he had been able to make
use of his past experiences.
She began to creep away from the window, and she felt her legs,
all at once, shaking under her. By the time she reached the
Chesterfield sofa she fell down by it and began to cry. A sort of
hysteria seized her, and she shook from head to foot and clutched
at the upholstery with weak hands which clawed. She was, indeed,
an awful, piteous sight. He was perhaps not lying, but she was
afraid of him yet.
"I told the men who are waiting outside that if I did not bring
you out in half an hour, they were to break into the house. I do
not wish them to break in. We have not any time to spare. What
you are doing is quite natural, but you must try and get up." He
stood by her and said this looking down at her slender, wrung body
and lovely groveling head.
He took a flask out of his overcoat pocket--and it was a gem of
goldsmith's art. He poured some wine into its cup and bent forward
to hold it out to her.
"Drink this and try to stand on your feet," he said.
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