She threw hat and coat on the bed and sat down before the fire. Stanley, at the door. She was trying to adjust the wimple, dragging at it and fighting with her loosened hair. Either it was an unfortunate recovery of a trail, or he had followed her from Mayfair. "Rowland," she said, in a faint voice, "I have not many minutes to live. But his gloom appeared to be occasioned by remorse, rather than sorrow. She let out a delighted laugh. "The Dutchman was right, after all. What was she going to do? One main idea possessed her: she must get away from home, she must assert herself at once or perish.
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