She was consumed by misery and hate. She was an indignant queen, no doubt she was alarmed and disgusted within limits; but she was highly excited, and there was something, some low adventurous strain in her being, some element, subtle at least if base, going about the rioting ways and crowded insurgent meeting-places of her mind declaring that the whole affair was after all—they are the only words that express it—a very great lark indeed. When ninety per cent. I think you are hard. Through fire and water, through penury and pestilence, your hand will always be on his shoulder. When I carried you up here like a bride, that is the way I wanted us to be, Mary Lucia. But heavens, I must pack!” She sprang to her feet and disappeared in the room beyond, from which she emerged a few minutes later with flushed cheeks and dishevelled hair.
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