After an hour of waiting, she slammed her bedroom door and he returned to his basement. That is what terrified her: the consciousness that nothing in her life would be continuous, that she would no sooner form friendships (like the present) than relentless fate would thrust her into a new circle. "There's Sharples," cried Quilt. The necessity which had previously existed of leaving the ghastly evidence of the murderous deed undisturbed,—the presence of the mangled corpse,—the bustle of the inquest, at which her attendance was required,—all these circumstances produced a harrowing effect upon the young girl's imagination. Where's the dining room? And, say, can I have some eggs? This jam-tea breakfast gets my goat. ‘What is it?’ ‘Er—shouldn’t I tell—I mean, the young lady, sir—’ ‘You can leave the young lady to me. She slipped past the servants, her soft roe-skin shoes unheard on the old stone. They chatted pleasantly as he drove around the neighborhood for a half an hour, then stopped by the Diedermayer house. There’s the internal factor as well as the external.
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