And I caught her in my arms again, half-reclining on the bed.
"Sh!" she flung me off with a sudden impulse of frightened strength, "I hear someone."
"It's only the wind."
"Quick!... my God!"—
I snatched up a volume of Keats. It fell open at "St. Agnes Eve." I hurled myself into a chair ... gathering my breath I began aloud, as naturally as I could—
"St. Agnes' Eve! ah, bitter chill it was;
The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold—"
At that very instant, Penton burst in at the door.
He paused a dramatic moment, his back to it, facing us.