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Weyman, Stanley John, 1855-1928

"The House of the Wolf; a romance"

I
cursed Croisette for his folly, and was immeasurably angry with
him, but I had no time to waste words on him then. I hurried to
the door to guard it. I opened it a hand's breadth and listened.
All was quiet below; the house still. I took the key out of the
lock and put it in my pocket and went back. Marie and Croisette
were standing a little apart from Madame de Pavannes, who,
hanging over her sister, was by turns bathing her face and
explaining our presence.
In a very few minutes Madame d'O seemed to recover, and sat up.
The first shock of deadly terror had passed, but she was still
pale. She still trembled, and shrank from meeting our eyes,
though I saw her, when our attention was apparently directed
elsewhere, glance at one and another of us with a strange
intentness, a shuddering curiosity. No wonder, I thought. She
must have had a terrible fright--one that might have killed a
more timid woman!
"What on earth did you do that for!" I asked Croisette
presently, my anger certainly not decreasing the more I looked at
her beautiful face.


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