And she’s pluck to the backbone. The person, shortly afterwards ushered into the room, seemed by the imperfect light,—for the evening was advancing, and the chamber darkened by heavy drapery,—to be a middle-sized middle-aged man, of rather vulgar appearance, but with a very shrewd aspect. You can do it, if you will. It probably still wouldn’t help. Something or other—she did not catch what—he was damned if he could stand. She seemed smitten with a paroxysm of fear. After what seemed like an eternity he turned right onto a dirt road that ended unceremoniously at a copse of leafless trees.
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