"Where shall I fly?" exclaimed the lady, bewildered with terror. “I suppose I should let go if I had. She was aware of people—her aunt, her father, her fellow-students, friends, and neighbors— moving about outside this glowing secret, very much as an actor is aware of the dim audience beyond the barrier of the footlights. You have threatened to kill me for nothing, I know not how many times. Gold-handled, too. Rage flooded her at his intent, but she controlled it. He dragged it out, and perceiving, in spite of the decayed frame, that it was the body of Sir Rowland Trenchard, commanded his attendants to convey it up stairs—an order which was promptly obeyed. He had been quite right to sit down.
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