To be alone with her, in idleness, was an intolerable thought. “I must take them,” she said, to help herself over her own incredulity. She was vaguely happy over this arrangement which put her in the wing across the middle hall, alone. A wooden balcony in one of the adjoining houses was thronged with ladies, all of whom appeared to take a lively interest in the scene, and to be full of commiseration for the criminal, not, perhaps, unmixed with admiration of his appearance. And in reality even that magic garden-close resolves itself into a villa at Morningside Park and my father being more and more cross and overbearing at meals—and a general feeling of insecurity and futility.
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