Her heart sank as she thought of her old friendships, of her mother,
her sister, the pride of her innocence, and the pure joys of the
home fireside.
As she half reclined on a divan in Hector's library, she wept
freely. She bewailed her life, broken at twenty, her lost youth,
her vanished, once radiant hopes, the world's esteem, and her own
self-respect, which she should never recover.
Of a sudden the door was abruptly opened.
Laurence thought it was Hector returned, and she hastily rose,
passing her handkerchief across her face to try to conceal her
tears.
A man whom she did not know stood upon the threshold, respectfully
bowing. She was afraid, for Tremorel had said to her many times
within the past two days, "We are pursued; let us hide well;" and
though it seemed to her that she had nothing to fear, she trembled
without knowing why.
"Who are you?" she asked, haughtily, "and who has admitted you here?
What do you want?"
M. Lecoq left nothing to chance or inspiration; he foresaw
everything, and regulated affairs in real life as he would the
scenes in a theatre. He expected this very natural indignation and
these questions, and was prepared for them.
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