She was safe in the cold deserted
parlour where she had stood this morning. Cold, doubtless, but she
could not be conscious of it; in her veins there seemed rather to be
fire than blood. Her brain was clear, but in an unnatural way; the
throbbing at her temples ought to have been painful, but only
excited her with a strange intensity of thought. And she felt, amid
it all, a dread of what was before her; only the fever, to which she
abandoned herself with a sort of reckless confidence, a faith that
it would continue till this interview was over, overcame an impulse
to rush back into her hiding-place, to bury herself in shame, or
desperately whelm her wretchedness in the final oblivion. . . .
He was very punctual. The heavy bell of St. Paul's had not reached
its ninth stroke when she heard his knock at the door.
He came in without speaking, and stood as if afraid to look at her.
The lamp, placed on a side-table, barely disclosed all the objects
within the four walls; it illumined Sidney's face, but Clara moved
so that she was in shadow. She began to speak.
'You understood my note? The people who live here are away, and I
have ventured to borrow their room.
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