“I may not see the Widgetts for some little time, father,” she said. He too, when she had disappeared, called a carriage. Her eyes glistened in the darkness—for light was only admitted through a small grated window—like flames, and, as she fixed them on him, their glances seemed to penetrate his very soul. “I wish he had,” she said. Her long incarceration at the convent in Blaye had taught her to be dismissive of her own appearance. Turning, she heaved at the bottom door and slammed it in his face just as he came leaping forward to grab her. But though the breach was large enough to admit him below, he could not squeeze his bulky person through the aperture into the Red Room.
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