She pondered.
No. She was not cruel. If she heard a cat mewing in the street she would scarcely ever pass it by. A child crying filled her with vague depression. She was not cruel. But she was immensely, voraciously curious, a frantic explorer of her own and other people’s emotions, a ruthless exploiter of dramatic possibilities. She had not developed these traits by reading novels or seeing plays or any such exterior means. They were inherent in herself.
Suddenly she remembered the note that had been given her that evening. By the light of a candle she sat up in bed and tore open the thin, purple-lined envelope.
She read:
DEAR MADAM,
Will you come and see me to-morrow (Sunday) at three p.m., “Claremont,” the Ridgeway, Upton Rising?—Yrs., etc.,
EMIL RAZOUNOV.
Razounov!
She actually laughed, a little silver ripple which she immediately stifled on reflecting that Mrs. Carbass slept in the room below.
Razounov!