He dropped his arms, and left her free.
“No; I beg your pardon, Sybil. I thought you were my loving wife,” he said.
“You were mistaken. I am not Rosa Blondelle!” she cried.
“Hush! hush! my dearest Sybil!” he muttered earnestly, as he went and closed and locked the parlor door, to save her from being seen by the servants in her present insane passion.
But she swept past him like a storm, and laid her hand on the lock. She found it fast.
“Open, and let me pass,” she cried.
“No, no, my dear Sybil. Remain here until you are calmer, and then tell me—”
“Let me out, I say!”
“But, dearest Sybil.”
“What! would you keep me a prisoner—by force?” she cried, with a cruel sneer.