When he had gone she stood motionless and silent for a few moments, looking wildly around, but mute under the leaden weight of her thoughts. Then she walked with slow, uneven steps to the ottoman by the fire, and sank upon it.
The fierce strain had been removed from her nerves, and her happiness found vent in hysterical sobs.
“I hate myself. It’s horrible, and yet I am powerless,” she cried passionately.
Then she lapsed into a silence broken only by long, deep sighs.
Chapter Eleven.
The Fourth Passenger.
“I think the trick is almost accomplished.”
“So do I.”