. . . I am sorry to say it, Miss Denistoun: but that
blackguard yonder took ship and left me solitary,--to die, for aught
he knew. Let him come-to, and then we'll talk."
Constantia rose. Slowly she picked up her gloves and sunshade.
"No, we will not talk," she said, after a pause. "That talk is for
you four men. I--I have no wish to see him recover."
As she said it, she very slowly detached from her breast-knot the
rose which had carried my felicitation, and laid it on the table:
and, with that, she walked out, Farrell drawing aside to make way for
her.
NIGHT THE TWENTY-SECOND.
THE SECOND MAN ESCAPES.
Now that exit of Constantia's, I must tell you, had an instant and
very remarkable effect upon Farrell, though she swept by him without
perceiving it.
A moment before he had stood barring the doorway, his legs planted
wide, his eyes fierce, his chest panting as he waited for his enemy
to come back to life, his mouth working and twisting with impatience
to let forth its flood of denunciation.
As Constantia walked to the door he not only drew back a foot to let
her pass.
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