All she could foresee was the keeping of her
appointment with Scawthorne to-morrow morning; what use to try and
look further, when assuredly a succession of circumstances
impossible to calculate would in the end constrain her? The best
would be if she could sleep out the interval.
At mid-day she rose, ate and drank mechanically, then contemplated
the hours that must somehow be killed. There was sunlight in the
sky, but to what purpose should she go out? She went to the window,
and surveyed the portion of street that was visible. On the opposite
pavement, at a little distance, a man was standing; it was Sidney
Kirkwood. The sight of him roused her from apathy; her blood
tingled, rushed into her cheeks and throbbed at her temples. So, for
all she had said, he was daring to act the spy! He suspected her; he
was lurking to surprise visitors, to watch her outgoing and coming
in. Very well; at least he had provided her with occupation.
Five minutes later she saw that he had gone away. Thereupon--
having in the meantime clad herself--she left the house and walked
at a quick step towards a region Of North London with which she had
no acquaintance.
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