He turned again to the wall, pressed the concealed spring without an instant’s hesitation, and the door flew open—flew open, and Mary, without a glance behind her, flew out.
Chapter Seventeen.
Mary Tells Stories.
Florizel—“Fortune speed us!—
Thus we set on, Camillo, to the sea-side.”
Camillo.—“The swifter speed the better.”
Winter’s Tale.
She flew out of the room, across the passage, down the little stair, and out at the door, still standing slightly ajar, for a moment thinking of nothing but the delight of being liberated at last. But it was dusk outside among the trees, and her hesitation which way to go recalled her to herself. She stopped short, and then turned back again.
“I should have thanked him. He really must think me mad,” she said to herself, with a hot flush of shame, hardly knowing what she ought to do.
But she was not long left in doubt. Mr Cheviott had followed her down-stairs; he was standing at the door.
“I am ashamed of not thanking you for letting me out,” she said, hastily.