She was in her bedroom, which was on
the second floor, at the back of the house, looking out on the top of
the gallery that led to the great room. She had no fire. One was burning
away unheeded in the drawing-room below. She was too miserable to care
whether she was cold or warm. When she had got some light in her body,
then she would go and get warm!
What time it was she did not know. She had been summoned to the last
meal of the day, but had forgotten the summons. It must have been about
ten o'clock. The streets were silent, the square deserted--as usual. The
evening was raw and cold, one to drive everybody in-doors that had doors
to go in at.
Through the cold and darkness came a shriek that chilled her with
horror. Yet it seemed as if she had been expecting it--as if the cloud
of misery that had all day been gathering deeper and deeper above and
around her, had at length reached its fullness, and burst in the
lightning of that shriek. It was followed by another and yet another.
Whence did they come? Not from the street, for all beside was still;
even the roar of London was hushed! And there was a certain something in
the sound of them that assured her that they rose in the house.
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