I
instinctively followed the direction of his eyes, but I could see
nothing unusual. The still feebly flickering ashes in the grate,
and the row of prim ornaments on the mantelpiece, were surely
harmless enough.
The violence of Mrs. Inglethorp's attack seemed to be passing.
She was able to speak in short gasps.
"Better now--very sudden--stupid of me--to lock myself in."
A shadow fell on the bed and, looking up, I saw Mary Cavendish
standing near the door with her arm around Cynthia. She seemed
to be supporting the girl, who looked utterly dazed and unlike
herself. Her face was heavily flushed, and she yawned
repeatedly.
"Poor Cynthia is quite frightened," said Mrs. Cavendish in a low
clear voice. She herself, I noticed, was dressed in her white
land smock. Then it must be later than I thought. I saw that a
faint streak of daylight was showing through the curtains of the
windows, and that the clock on the mantelpiece pointed to close
upon five o'clock.
A strangled cry from the bed startled me.
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