He stopped on the curb-stone, not facing her but as if he was on his way to cross the road, and spoke to her suddenly over his shoulder. "Write as I dictate," he cried, placing a pen in the jailer's hand and a pistol to his ear. From the threshold she looked her accuser steadily and coldly in the face. "What do you mean?" cried Winifred in alarm. He accepted this confession conditionally: that no young man had kissed her. All this torrent of misleading, spurious stuff that pours from the press. During the foregoing occurrences a dead calm prevailed. She had a feeling as though something had dropped from her eyes, as though she had just discovered herself for the first time—discovered herself as a sleepwalker might do, abruptly among dangers, hindrances, and perplexities, on the verge of a cardinal crisis.
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