He walked to the nearest; a deep-drawn breath told him that it was the
wrong one. Drawing some faint consolation from the fact that Elizabeth
was evidently asleep, he groped his way to the second bed through
the deep twilight of the room. The clothes were thrown back. He laid
Beatrice down and threw them over her. Then he fled.
As he reached the door he saw Mr. Granger's light disappear into his own
room and heard his door close. After that it seemed to him that he took
but two steps and was in his own place.
He burst out laughing; there was as much hysteria in the laugh as a man
gives way to. His nerves were shattered by struggle, love and fear, and
sought relief in ghastly merriment. Somehow the whole scene reminded
him of one in a comic opera. There was a ludicrous side to it. Supposing
that the political opponents, who already hated him so bitterly, could
have seen him slinking from door to door at midnight with an unconscious
lady in his arms--what would they have said?
He ceased laughing; the fit passed--indeed it was no laughing matter.
Then he thought of the first night of their strange communion, that
night before he had returned to London.
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