"Is there anything more—?"
"If you wouldn't mind sitting down—"
She had twisted her arm-chair away from the table. Whitaker took a seat a little distance from her, with a keen glance appraising the change in her condition and finding it not so marked as he had hoped. Still, she seemed measurably more composed and mistress of her emotions, though he had to judge mostly by her voice and manner, so dark was the room. Through the shadows he could see little more than masses of light and shade blocking in the slender figure huddled in a big, dilapidated chair—the pallid oval of her face, and the darkness of her wide, intent, young eyes.
"Don't!" she cried sharply. "Please don't look at me so—"
"I beg your pardon. I didn't mean to—"
"It's only—only that you make me think of what you must be thinking about me—"
"I think you're rather fortunate," he said slowly.
"Fortunate!"
He shivered a little with the chill bitterness of that cry.
"You've had a narrow but a wonderfully lucky escape."