There was one window, hung with dark curtains of
tarnished embroidery, but in pushing them aside, she met only a
dull blank of unlighted glass, for the shutters were firmly
secured without. Altogether, she could not form the slightest
idea where she was; and, with a feeling of utter despair, she sat
down on one of the queer old chairs, with much the same feeling
as if she were sitting in a tomb.
What would Sir Norman say? What would he ever think of her, when
he found her gone. And what was destined to be her fate in this
dreadful out-of-the-way place? She would have cried, as most of
her sex would be tempted to do in such a situation, but that her
dislike and horror of Count L'Estrange was a good deal stronger
than her grief, and turned her tears to sparks of indignant fire.
Never, never, never! would she be his wife! He might kill her a
thousand times, if he liked, and she wouldn't yield an inch. She
did not mind dying in a good cause; she could do it but once.
And with Sir Norman despising her, as she felt he must do, when
he found her run away, she rather liked the idea than otherwise.
Mentally, she bade adieu to all her friends before beginning to
prepare for her melancholy fate - to her handsome lover, to his
gallant friend Ormiston, to her poor nurse, Prudence, and to her
mysterious visitor, La Masque.
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