She was afraid people would follow her, she was afraid of the dark, open doorways she passed, and afraid of the blazes of light; she was afraid to be alone, and she knew not what it was she feared. Wood, who was standing at the edge of a raised platform, anxiously waving his hand to him. “I’m sorry. But in between these wider phases of comparative confidence were gaps of disconcerting doubt, when the universe was presented as making sinister and threatening faces at her, defying her to defy, preparing a humiliating and shameful overthrow. Now that she was his, to make or mar, she presented an extraordinary fascination. She arrived about nine o’clock the next evening in a state of tremulous enthusiasm. “Nothing. It is your own choice, isn’t it?” She nodded. "I think I may trust him with you, Sir," added she, taking up the candle. .
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