She looked across the room, and for a strange moment fancied that she could see neither the clock nor the mantelpiece—a grey dimness filled her sight. She shook herself, glanced down at her hands, looked up for reassurance, and found Mrs. Porter, with wide, terrified eyes, staring at her, her hands trembling against the wood of the table.
"What is it, Lucy?"
"Nothing, Mrs. Porter."
"Did you see something?"
"No, dear."
"Oh, I thought ... I thought...." Suddenly the old lady, with a fierce impetuous movement, pushed the table away from her. She got up, staggered for a moment on her feet, then tumbled to the pink sofa, cowering there, huddled, her sharp, fingers pressing against her face.
"Oh, I can't bear it.... I can't bear it.... I can't bear it any more! He's coming. He's coming. Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do?"
Miss Allen, feeling nothing but love and affection for her friend, but realising strangely too the dim and muted attention of the room, knelt down beside the sofa and put her strong arms around the trembling, fragile body.
"What is it? Dear, dear Mrs. Porter. What is it? Who is coming? Of whom are you afraid?"
"Henry's coming! Henry, who hated me. He's coming to carry me away!"