She put her hand to her head in a lost, dazed sort of way.
"Angry with you? Oh, no—why should I be? My head feels strange—dizzy,—I don't want to hear any more to-night. I think I will go home."
She turned slowly. He stood watching her with an anxious face. What he knew would come, came. She had walked some dozen yards, then suddenly—without warning, word or sound, she fell heavily, face downward, like a stone.
CHAPTER XIII.
MR. LISTON'S STORY
nother autumnal twilight, ghostly and gray is creeping over the Chelsea shore. In her pleasant chamber in the Chelsea cottage, Norine lies on her white bed and looks out upon it. Looks out, but sees nothing. The dark, burning, brilliant eyes might be stone blind for all they see of the windy, fast drifting sky, of the strip of wet and slippery sands, of the white-capped sea beyond. She might be stone deaf for all she hears of the wintry soughing of the wind, of the dull, ceaseless boom of the sea on the shore, or the light patter of the chill rain on the glass. She lies here as she has lain from the first—rigid—stricken soul and body.