She was an indignant queen, no doubt she was alarmed and disgusted within limits; but she was highly excited, and there was something, some low adventurous strain in her being, some element, subtle at least if base, going about the rioting ways and crowded insurgent meeting-places of her mind declaring that the whole affair was after all—they are the only words that express it—a very great lark indeed. Her lips were apart, but no breath seemed to issue from them; and, but for a slight—very slight palpitation of the bosom, the vital principle might be supposed to be extinct. He forces an engagement upon her. She had killed the McCloskeys after they had witnessed her making a kill. She followed Oxford Street into Holborn, and then she inquired for Chancery Lane. Someone bounded up the stairs, which groaned from the strain, unmistakably Mike. With a swirl of her floral chintz petticoats, she placed herself in the capacious window seat, accepted the glass Gerald handed to her, and smiled mischievously up at him. Don't be afraid, man,—off with it. Everything was done in a genteel and ordinary way, but on the other hand, there was no lingering. Quite right. It interwove with her biological work. Every article in the trunk was fully known to her, through a recounting of the list by the doctor. “How would you prevent it?” she asked.
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