Clientèle was of the most transitory character. “How odd that I should almost spring into your arms just on my doorstep!” she remarked gaily. If only there had not been this single torturing thought—a mere pin-prick, but still curiously persistent. Forgetting her occupation in her anger, she left off bathing Darrell's wrist; and, squeezing his arm so tightly that the boy winced with pain, she clapped her right hand upon her hip, and turned, with flashing eyes and an inflamed countenance, towards her crest-fallen spouse. She did not wait, but grabbed up the lantern and slid into the passage, calling to them to hurry.
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