It was in the quiet streets and squares toward Oxford Street that it first came into her head disagreeably that she herself was being followed. What was yet more worthy of note was, that the widow's countenance had an air of refinement about it, of which it was utterly destitute before, and which seemed to intimate that her true position in society was far above that wherein accident had placed her. If I’d meant it, my girl, you’d be dead meat. He could remember when women laid away their gowns in lavender—as this girl's mother had. Once she reached the bamboo curtain, clutched at it and tore it down as his arms went around her waist. It was a night of storm and terror, which promised each moment to become more stormy and more terrible. The lady had disappeared. It was hard to resist. She hated living like that.
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